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TALES OF THE LOST CITADEL
Tales of The Lost Citadel is copyright © 2016 by C.A. Suleiman. All rights reserved.
All stories within are copyright © of their respective authors.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or fictitious recreations of
actual historical persons. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the authors unless otherwise specified. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written
permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Nisaba Press, an imprint of Green Ronin Publishing, LLC. Green Ronin,
Nisaba Press, and their associated logos are Trademarks of Green Ronin Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Worldwide Rights
Created in the United States of America
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REQUIEM, IN BELLS
Ari Marmell���������������������������������������������������������������������������������1
THE DRESSMAKER
Elizabeth Massie����������������������������������������������������������������������125
HE IN MEMORY
Malcolm Sheppard�������������������������������������������������������������������143
SUICIDE SEEDS
Erin Evans�������������������������������������������������������������������������������191
FORERUNNER
Janet Morris & Chris Morris�����������������������������������������������������221
CHILD OF DUST
Jaym Gates������������������������������������������������������������������������������279
x
FOREWORD
C.A. Suleiman
Washington, D.C.
xi
REQUIEM,
IN BELLS
ARI MARMELL
It was all oppressive in the great city of Redoubt. The last city
of Redoubt. The hunger and the want; the dreary, unsatisfying
fare that was all most could afford to assuage that want. The day
and the night, the labor and the rest. The living and the Dead. All
oppressive, but all capable of being set aside, at times, by the dour
men and women who had lived entire lives in their shadow.
But not the bells. Crafted to chime high and painful to the ear,
to clash with one another in horrible cacophony, the bells would
not be ignored, for that would have defeated their purpose.
Khulechtan barked a sharp order at the dwarves hauling the
wagon. Most didn’t even look up at the sound of his voice, just kept
beards matted with sweat and dust aimed roadward, but obeyed.
Creaking and juddering, the great wheeled cage turned a sharp
corner, continuing past the ramshackle huts and impoverished
tenements — dilapidated, listing, packed well beyond capacity,
more hives than dignified abodes — that made up the next street
on Khulechtan’s appointed rounds.
Through the endless din of Eastside, poorest and most crowded
districts of Redoubt’s Inner City, through a hundred conversations
and the cries of children and the bleating of goats, those bells
cut. And even the most oblivious pedestrian stepped aside for
Khulechtan’s cart.
All save those who had deliveries for him.
Doors drifted open, where the humble tenements had doors.
Leather curtains swept aside where they did not. From homes,
the occasional shop, even sporadic alleyways, men and women —
mostly human, of this culture or that, but occasionally a free dwarf
— shuffled out bearing their dead.
Not too many, of course. Even in the harsh environs of Redoubt,
people weren’t dropping dead constantly, and Khulechtan’s wagon
was but one of three or four that would pass through this district
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delivered the blow with knuckles rather than with blade, and to
the young widower’s stomach rather than to any spot that might
readily break.
“I grieve along with you,” he said, his tone flat. “But if that body
is not in my wagon before this moaning idiot catches his breath, it
won’t be the only one I collect from this house today.”
Despite their advancing age, the dead woman’s relatives had
her in the cage with time to spare. Khulechtan spun on his heel,
nodding a brusque farewell to them and an equally short “well
done” to the ghûl, and resumed his rounds, accompanied once more
by the screech of wheels, the tromp of dwarven boots, and those
God-forsaken chimes.
It was hours later, the sun having only begun its westward
plummet, when those rounds were finally complete. Tired, sticky
with perspiration, the Corpseman and his team turned their wagon
toward the yard, where the bodies would be processed — dismantled
not only so they wouldn’t rise anew, but for daily use; bones carved
for tools, skin gathered for tanning, fat for rendering into tallow,
hair for yarn, every possible piece used in resource-starved Redoubt.
From there, the slaves would take to their pens for food and rest,
while Khulechtan returned to a home not much more comfortable.
All as it had been for days beyond counting before this, and
almost assuredly would be for days beyond counting afterward.
Except that, today, Hudai remained restless. His feet fell heavily,
his snout working, his voice a constant mumble, rumble, deep in
his throat.
“Not enough... Not right... Not enough...”
Ignore it, Khulechtan told himself, time and again. Just a ghûl
slave gibbering nonsense. Meaningless. Shift is over. Go home.
“Not enough...”
“God’s name, Hudai, what are you talking about?”
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The foot traffic at night was only marginally lighter than the
daylight hours’, but that lessening of the ambient scents — as well
as the pair’s choice to walk directly beside the buildings, rather than
keeping to the streets — made sufficient difference. They had only
begun retracing their earlier route through the neighborhood when
the ghûl drew up short, snuffling up at a second-story window.
“Hmm. Here. Death. Fresh.”
“Body?”
“Not now. But recent.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Mostly.”
“Wonderful.”
So Hudai couldn’t be positive. And even if he was right, couldn’t
another Taker have come through on rounds after Khulechtan?
Could the ghûl be smelling the traces of a corpse that was properly
disposed of ? Khulechtan did some quick subtraction on his fingers
and decided that, while it wasn’t likely one of his brethren had come
through since his own earlier visit, it was possible.
He sighed, shrugged one shoulder so his sleaghar dropped to
his fist, and started up the stairs. The roaches and beetles were a
noisy carpet beneath his steps, not even bothering to scatter. The
rats were fewer, and small on average; the survivors left behind to
breed, while their larger compatriots had doubtless already been
trapped and eaten.
“Through here?” he asked, stepping into the hall and stopping
before a doorway that, like most of its neighbors, boasted only a
worn curtain for privacy.
Hudai sniffed. “ Yes.”
Well, if someone inside had indeed kept a deceased relative
from the Undertaking, they weren’t going to casually admit to it.
Khulechtan hefted his spear and lunged inside with a fearsome shout.
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“Mmm?”
“Go back. Get some sleep. If I fail to report for duty tomorrow,
tell the others what we’ve learned.” Many of them would, most
probably, doubt the word of a ghûl slave, but Hudai’s experience
working with several, along with Khulechtan’s own absence, would
at least get them moving.
“Back? You continue alone?”
“I’m going to have to follow them to God-knows-where. I can
blend in through most of the Inner City, but there are places where
a ghûl would be far too conspicuous.” He frowned. “You do know
that word? Conspicuous?”
“ Yes.”
“Good. And you understand your orders?”
“ Yes.”
“So go.”
“Mmm.” But that lone grumble aside, Hudai obeyed, vanishing
swiftly into the darkness. Khulechtan wandered around a bit, found
a darkened doorway that allowed a good view of the tenement he’d
selected, and waited.
They arrived, three of them, with a goat-drawn wagon full of
burlap sacks. Far away as he was, Khulechtan still got a brief whiff
of near-rotten vegetables. Smart, if they planned to smuggle a body
that way. And indeed, they went inside for only moments, returning
with a man-sized parcel. This, they carefully placed beneath the
sacks they already had before continuing on their way.
Struggling to appear oblivious and casual, the Corpseman
followed.
They covered a great distance, stopping once to collect a second
cadaver. The tenor of the streets changed, as did those who walked
them. Khulechtan realized that they were approaching the edge of
Eastside; not remotely a wealthy neighborhood by any measure, but
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markedly better off than where they’d started. The passersby wore
nicer garb, the homes were ever so slightly larger and definitely
in better repair. Even the air smelled fresher, though the place
remained crowded enough, the people sweaty enough, the labors
of daily life hard enough, that it really oughtn’t have.
Had they continued much further, into neighborhoods nicer
still, Khulechtan might have begun to stand out. As it was, however,
they hauled their bleating goats to a halt before a long structure
of multiple storefronts. Several boasted signs, but the moons were
insufficiently full, the streetside torches too far apart, for Khulechtan
to make out whatever illustrations they bore. In any event, they
should all have been closed up for the night, but the door on which
the first of the trio knocked opened almost immediately. Several
more men emerged to assist them, and they swiftly had both bodies
inside and out of sight. The door slammed shut, while one man
returned to the wagon and drove it off down the road.
Khulechtan dashed across the way, flattened himself in the
doorway, and tried the latch. He was disappointed but not remotely
surprised to find it locked.
Break it down? It wouldn’t be difficult, but neither would it be
quiet. With a sharp sigh, he returned to his prior waiting spot and
hoped the wagon-driver would return.
As luck had it, he did, only moments later. Khulechtan waited
until he heard the thunk of a heavy key in the lock across the way,
then sprinted once more.
The stranger gave a juddering sigh as the sleaghar slid into his
back, angled upward to catch heart and lungs. He slumped, with
only Khulechtan’s grip on the spear holding him upright.
The Taker swiftly dragged the body inside, swung the door shut
with a heel, and leaned back against it. The room was dark save for
a single guttering oil lamp, but the heavy shapes bobbing in the
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There was also a sentry, another gang thug by the looks of him,
waiting in the corridor between Khulechtan and his destination. He
was barely watching, however, presumably secure in his belief that
nobody but his wagon-driving compatriot would be coming this
way. By the time he recognized Khulechtan as a stranger, let alone a
potential threat, the Corpseman’s sleaghar was already between his ribs.
This time, for all his training, Khulechtan was nearly too
stunned to take precautions, to mutilate the body enough to slow
it down should it rise. For in falling out of his path, the dead sentry
had provided him with his first clear view of what awaited.
The chamber was massive, more an artificial cavern than a
room. Multiple scores of people were gathered within, laughing
and shouting and cheering like spectators in one of the city’s great
arenas. Their garb, their stature, their skin marked them as members
of all five of humanity’s great nations, and every possible mixture
thereof. For all its variety, however, the group wardrobe was only
the finest available. Many of those present, though not all, wore
masks of various styles, flaunting their riches but hiding their faces.
Of course. Khulechtan nodded absently. That was why this —
whatever it was — was happening at the very edges of Eastside. Couldn’t
ask the wealthy to lower themselves to come any further into the realms
of the unwashed, could we?
At numerous points throughout the crowd stood men and women
in cheap, piecemeal armor — mostly of boiled leather, like the Taker’s
own, which he had rather fervently begun to miss. Armed with heavy
axes or long-hafted spears, they clearly served as guards, though
Khulechtan couldn’t immediately guess to what purpose. Surely
the crowd itself didn’t require that sort of control, and they weren’t
positioned to watch the various entrances to the great hall.
No, they had to be standing sentry against whatever was
within the pit.
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dripping blood. Far, far too much to be their own, or the result of any
struggle; it must have been poured freshly upon them, in amounts
beyond what any human body could hold, before the contest began.
Grotesque as it was, it wasn’t merely the blood itself that
bothered him. In staring, trying to determine precisely what was
happening, he saw the foul stuff dripping from three of the figures
below, splashing and dangling in viscous strings, but from the
fourth... It was hard to be sure, at this distance, but it seemed to
be clinging, shearing off only in tiny flakes as though… frozen?
Khulechtan’s breath caught in his chest as if it had claws; the
hair on his neck stood so straight it might well have broken against
his armor had he worn it. It couldn’t be! It couldn’t! Nobody would!
The centermost combatant lashed out, fingers splayed like claws,
faster than a bolt from an arbalest. Flesh flew, and bone, a length of rib
tearing free and embedding itself in the soft earthen wall of the pit.
The victim of that inhuman assault did not fall, did not flinch.
Instead it lunged, jaw gaping wide, wider, until skin and muscle
tore, so that it might take a bite from the body of its foe.
His scream of horror and disbelief was lost amidst the cheering
of the crowd.
Fighting for breath he looked away, forcing himself to swallow his
bile, to squelch the urge to flee, to think through the fog of emotion.
And the first question his frantic, panicking thoughts settled on
was How? During the occasional outbreaks within the city, amidst the
ebbing and flowing tides that flooded the world beyond Redoubt’s
walls, the Dead attacked only the living, never one another.
Was that why they were covered in blood? Fresh enough, and in
such quantities, could it trick them into mistaking one of their own
for something alive? Some, perhaps. The Dead could be cunning, but
many were all but mindless and none were particularly intelligent. Those
that were bestial enough, and who relied on senses more mundane
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beyond the city walls! You want to play audience to the Dead?
That’ll be opportunity enough!”
“We’re not endangering anything, Corpseman. We keep careful
watch on the bodies we collect. They are caged, and any that haven’t
risen in a few days are burned. We observe their behavior. Any that
won’t fight, or seem too potentially clever, are destroyed.”
“And did you happen to notice one of them down there, right
now, is holding back and letting the others do its work for it? How
blind are your ‘observers’?”
“We’re still judging that one. It may be put down, yes. And we
do the same to any that show signs of abilities that might make
holding them difficult.”
“You have four of them in a pit surrounded by people! Some of
the Dead climb walls like spiders. Everyone out of his shit-filled
swaddling cloth knows that!”
Little Goat shrugged, waved a hand at the observation window.
“The sides of the pit are soft soil. Even one that could climb would
be slowed, more than enough for our guards to meet it. We know.
We’ve tested it. And before you ask, no, none of the Dead are strong
enough to leap that distance.”
“That you know of, you idiot! But nobody knows what sorts
of powers undiscovered Restless might possess. For all you know,
some may fly!”
“In seventy years, there’s never been a single instance—”
“But you can’t know.”
“We consider it worth the risk. Have you any idea how much
the rich boar-fuckers down there are paying for this opportunity?
To witness something they haven’t already seen? To take back some
power over a shadow that has stretched over their entire lives?”
“People should fear the Dead. They’re a plague, a curse, not...
entertainment.”
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answer evident in his frosty tone. “You’re going to tell all of this to
the Watch, and in return I’ll make it clear you cooperated. Make any
attempt to flee, or allow any of your guard to stop us, you die. And
I assure you, I know how to make certain you die slow, in agony.”
“I believe you do.” Little Goat, his hands half-raised, took a
single step toward the door and the spear-wielding Corpseman...
A step that landed with a sandy crunch as the ceramic bauble
disintegrated beneath his sandal.
In the half a heartbeat it took Khulechtan’s gaze to flicker down
to the floor and back, Little Goat had produced a long-bladed
dagger, now clenched tightly, expertly, in one fist. The sleaghar still
gave the Taker every advantage — heavier, far longer, yet very nearly
as swift — but armed as he now was, Little Goat could at least
hold him off several moments. Quite possibly long enough for...
Yes. Already Khulechtan could hear the echo of sprinting steps
pounding up the stairs. The bead had been enchanted, then. A minor
magic, certainly, if all it did was alert the guards to come running,
but that was all it needed to do.
“Should’ve taken the offer,” the diminutive criminal taunted.
“Now you really are about to be a corpse man.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard that before,” Khulechtan mocked,
thoughts racing.
Little Goat scowled. “You won’t hear it again. There’s no way out.”
“Of course there is.” God, this was going to hurt...
Even as the door burst open beneath the fists of the first guard,
Khulechtan dove through the observation window.
Chamber walls flashed past, and he landed, hard and painfully,
before he had time even to register the motion. Had he struck the
floor, his injuries might have been far worse, but as he’d hoped and
prayed, he landed instead on several onlookers. Caught utterly by
surprise — and, in one instance, by the tip of his naked spear —
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The roars, the cries, the cheers melted into liquid screams of
terror as the first of the Dead landed amidst an audience who had
dared believe themselves safe from its wrath.
Men and women died, trampled in the panic, asphyxiated as
they were crushed between competing waves of the crowd. The
guards, who might have been able to contain the thing, found
themselves unable to press through the sudden current of panicked
flesh. Skin tore and bones shattered beneath the fearsome strikes
of the Restless, and bodies both living and dead plunged over the
edge of the pit to land in dreadful heaps below.
Two more of the Dead followed the first, leaping from spear to
the pit’s edge — perhaps clever enough to seek freedom, perhaps
merely mimicking what they’d seen. The other pair began tearing
into the men and women now trapped in the hole, a collection of
victims that only grew larger as those above knocked additional
onlookers over the precipice.
Khulechtan crouched — some might have said cowered —
against the wall, arms raised to shield himself from the rain of
blood, of bodies and parts of bodies. He had no sympathy for the
wealthy fools dying before him, but still he turned away from the
horror, flinched at every terrible sound. And he knew that every
onlooker between him and the Dead bought him only a few more
moments of breath, that he would never leave this pit alive.
Except...
The sounds from above had changed yet again. Screaming and
dying had been replaced by — no, not quite replaced, but now
accompanied — a more martial symphony of angry shouts and
battle. The clash not merely of flesh and bone, but metal.
Nor were these the voices of street thugs, however experienced,
but disciplined, trained warriors. The Corpseman felt the first faint
stirrings of hope — a hope that ignited into a warming fire when
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a knotted rope snaked its way down the side of the pit only a few
feet from where he crouched.
“Hurry!”
Whoever had shouted needn’t have bothered; Khulechtan had
a grip on the rope before it even finished its descent. One of the
Dead glanced up from its mouthful of flesh and howled at the
sight of potential prey escaping, but it didn’t bother even to rise,
not when there were so many other still-moving bodies in the pit
to choose from.
The woman who reached out a hand to haul him up and over
the edge bore the noble features and skin to suggest she shared his
Surinzan heritage. More important in that moment, she held a heavy
hatchet in her other fist and wore the tabard of the Watch. Indeed,
the chamber now contained over a dozen similarly garbed soldiers,
as well as several in leather armor that Khulechtan recognized
as fellow Takers. He felt tears of relief brimming in his eyes and
angrily dashed them away.
“The officers are going to want to talk to you,” she warned him.
“Nobody knows what the hell’s been going on down here.”
“I’ll tell them what I can, of course. But they might do better
to interrogate the man running this. He’s—”
“Little Goat?”
“That’s the one.”
“Sure, they’ll do that. As soon as we find enough of the rest
of him to reassemble.”
“Ah.”
“Listen,” she continued with a sideways glance at a trio of
soldiers lowering another rope into the pit, “I need to go. We still
have two revnants to—”
“Yes, but how did you know to come here? How—?”
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, then moved to join her
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companions, the first of whom had already started his climb down
into the hole.
Khulechtan followed her gesture, stared, and then wandered
over, carefully stepping around corpses and clusters of Watchmen
questioning the few onlookers who had neither died nor managed
to flee.
“You followed me?” he asked.
“Tracked,” Hudai growled. “Know your scent.”
“After getting help.”
“ Yes.”
“You disobeyed me.”
“ Yes.”
“You could be severely punished for that.”
“ Yes.”
Khulechtan placed a hand on the ghûl’s shoulder, gently
squeezing. “Thank you.”
“ Yes.”
Was that a hint of a smile on Hudai’s snout? Did the ghûl even
smile at all, as humans did? As long as he’d worked with them,
Khulechtan realized he had no idea, and felt vaguely ashamed.
When all was said and done, the Watch had arrested nearly a
dozen members of Little Goat’s gang, almost as many onlookers
(though most of those likely had the wealth and power to escape
any severe sentencing). Further, they and the Takers had accounted
for five of the Dead, in addition to those still held in pens beneath
the trapdoor.
Five. Not six. Of a gaunt, skeletal thing with frighteningly
abrupt motions and a gaping wound in its chest, there were no
reports at all.
And for a very long time, Khulechtan wondered.
It couldn’t have planned for this. Its patience, its hesitancy to
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29
THE SPORT
OF CROWS
BRIAN HODGE
32
THE SPORT OF CROWS
around their necks with rough twine. Their tongues lolled from their
exposed gullets. The coarse russet fur of their chests was matted with
blood that trickled as far as the bare, leathery hide of their bellies.
These two will never eat again. That was how Fáerin interpreted it.
He circled, moving through the crowd gathered in their finery
and rags. Where he couldn’t slip through with ease, he had shoulders
enough to clear a path for himself, until he made his way inside
the park so he could survey the bodies from behind.
An old saying, there was, probably Ouazi, as no one else knew
the ghûl quite so well: If you have to kill a ghûl, you’d best stab him in
the back. It was less to do with working up the courage to come at
such a fearsome creature head-on than matters of practicality. Those
long bellies of theirs were tougher than hide armor.
Nobody had stabbed these two, front or back. Their heads,
though — it was an easy thing to miss when you had those severed
jaws hanging there to appall you and make you turn away.
But he was Surinzan. And a true Surinzan did not look away,
neither from those in need nor from those past help.
Fáerin scaled one of the stone pillars flanking the entrance to
the park. The ghûls’ heads slumped forward in death, and from here
he could inspect the wounds he could barely see from the ground.
Each ghûl had a hole punched into his long-muzzled skull — one
in the back, the other near the temple.
They’d died swiftly, at least. That was about all the mercy anyone
could ask for in this world, and often, not even that much.
He straddled the oak beam and scooted farther out until he was
on top of them. Took the dagger from beneath the belt tied around
his waist and prodded its slim blade into the hole in the back of the
closer ghûl’s skull. He slipped it in until the wound took the blade’s
full length with no more resistance than the mush of the thing’s brain.
Not so with the other one. Halfway in, the tip hit something
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THE SPORT OF CROWS
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BRIAN HODGE
the lies and dead ends of the Inner City, and found him. Khaigar
ool-Nacheen was back in the plains of the Outer City, a patchwork
of farms and festering shantytowns, and, in the southwest, a village
the Ouazi called Aurib-Naa. It had begun as a place of self-exile
for four tribes who’d lost their taste for the politics of the Inner
City. Now it was a place where those Ouazi who still remembered
who they were felt most at home, with round tents and open fires
and a sky uncluttered by rooflines and towers. Besides, inside a city
was no fit place to graze a herd, even the pitiful numbers they had
now, and where their herds went, the Ouazi followed.
Khaigar seemed more at home here, in this camp with his fellow
tribesmen and their wives, than he ever had in Eastside. For a time,
they stood in stillness and took each other in, in that way of men
who hadn’t seen each other since they were desperate not to be
called boys, before the orbits of their worlds had carried them apart.
Khaigar was first to break the silence. “I wonder which of us
looks more different to the other.”
“Me to you, likely. Swinging a hammer against an anvil, that’ll
bury any boy deep inside the man. Plus, I didn’t have all these little
burns on my arms before.”
“A valid argument. But I’m the one with the beard.”
“You can always shave. Burns are forever.”
With a grin, sincere if not wholly relaxed, Khaigar stepped
forward to embrace him. He was the leaner of them, still, but felt
as dense as if the elements of the plains had carved him like a tree,
chipping away all but the hardest heartwood.
Khaigar ushered him to the fire so they could sit together on
a pair of camp stools, then poured for him an earthen cup of the
same strong tea, as dark as ink, the rest of the Ouazi were drinking.
He’d chosen their spot strategically, Khaigar had: not so close to
his kinsmen that they could listen, but close enough they could
38
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rally to him in an instant if need be. And they all carried knives.
In the middle distance, a group of younger Ouazi honed their
skills with javelins, hurling them at targets progressively farther
away. They weren’t dressed for the season — the first snows were at
most a month off — shunning the layers of robes and furs worn by
the older men around the fire for lighter, less constrictive clothes.
They were dressed for training.
As was Khaigar.
“What brings you to me?” he asked. “I can only imagine how
many stops you must have made along the way. Nostalgia would
have given out long before now.”
As Fáerin slid his hand into his pocket, he thought of them
twenty and more years ago. A few streets had separated them, and
streets only. Boys never cared about such things as different customs,
different histories, different eyes, and different skin. Redoubt was
all the home, all the world, any of them knew. All they’d cared
about was mischief and fun.
What a ridiculous hurry they’d been in to be men. Boys never
looked ahead to moments like this.
Fáerin held up the lead ball. “Do you value an old gift so little
that you leave it in the head of a dead ghûl?”
Dark of hair and eye, Khaigar seemed practiced at betraying
nothing he didn’t want known. He might have denied it, and even
been convincing. So perhaps he had too much respect for an old
friendship to sully it with a lie.
“They say an artisan will always know his work. Even something
as simple as this.” Khaigar scooped it into his palm and brought
it to his heart. “I esteem it as much as ever. But it went too deep
for me to retrieve it in the time we had. I thank you for its return.”
Fáerin sipped his tea and watched the young men with their
javelins. Frightfully skilled, most of them, but the javelin was not
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the Ouazi people’s signature weapon, nor its most demanding. No,
that was the girga, a simple leather sling that, in a skilled hand,
could punch a stone through a plank. Or a lead ball through a skull.
“Why?” Fáerin asked. “Why slaughter these ghûl? Slaves, no less.”
“Slaves are property. Compensation for property usually assuages
anger over the loss of something so easily replaced.”
“Your Ilbayt? The wardens? They can’t approve of this.”
“You might be surprised what leaders will approve of as long
as their own hands remain clean of it.”
“But why? They’re not a treacherous race, the ghûl. What have
they done to you?”
“Nothing. The same as they have ever done for us. Nothing.”
“I don’t understand,” Fáerin said. Khaigar had been a sensitive
boy and even now didn’t seem like a cruel man. “But how much
do I need to understand to ask you to stop slaughtering innocents
who’ve done you no harm.”
Khaigar sat back a moment, and looked as if every word caused
him pain. “Ool-Nacheen… the Eagle.” He tapped his eye. “You gave
me that. These lead balls you made at your father’s forge brought
me that name. Their accuracy was better than any stone, no matter
how well shaped. They gave me the eye of an eagle. I won my name
early. No other name could have brought me more honor than that.
You did this for me. For that, I will honor you until the day they
light the pyre beneath me and my smoke lifts to meet the sky. But
you cannot come here and ask me to stop doing what I must. Our
past does not give you that right.”
“I have every right to ask on behalf of what’s left of our world.
It’s a worse place every time another piece of it is exterminated.
Death isn’t rampant enough in it for you already?”
Khaigar nodded. “On that much we can agree. I don’t wish the
Narghûla exterminated. I only want them gone from here.”
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Fáerin shook his head with a sigh. “Beyond the outer gates,
they’ll be as gone from this world as the Meliae are. If not by
your hand, by your will. Do you think the gods will really see the
difference?”
“I don’t think the gods see much of anything. If they did, we
all would still be out there where they could have a better view of
us.” He stood. “Come along. Walk with me. It chafes a man’s ass
to sit too long.”
They strolled over the dust and scrub of the plain, northwest,
alongside meager herds of cattle and goats that grazed for whatever
they could gnaw from the feeble soil. The pastures were patchy and
cramped between the clusters of tents and scrappy gardens. Out
here, people still lived as if they’d been displaced by a flood.
While Khaigar had eyes only for the sky.
“Let me tell you why this name you helped win for me meant
so much,” he said. “We Ouazi hunted with eagles once. When the
Eternal Sea was still our home. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“We did. In those days, you might get your first eagle chick when
you were not much more a hatchling yourself. You journeyed to a
mountain and dared to climb until you found a nest unguarded. You
raised the chick yourself. Fed it, trained it. The two of you would grow
up together. You would send it to the sky, and it would carry a part
of you with it on the hunt. It’s said that, if you grew close enough,
you might even come to see the world below through its eyes.”
Khaigar scuffed at the dusty ground, so unlike the deserts and
grasses of the Eternal Sea.
“Once we hunted with eagles,” he said. “And now we don’t.
Because we’re here. This place. These walls. What eagle worth its
wings would lower itself to come here? The only birds that come
here are crows. They’re accustomed to picking at the dead. For
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the Narghûla not taken their food and coin for themselves.”
Fáerin watched them sway and feed, and once their portion
was consumed, yield their places to the next in line. He listened
to their chant, and wondered if it was more than imagination that
he heard thanksgiving in it.
“If we Ouazi are really to make our life here,” Khaigar said,
“if this place is all the future holds, then we have to free ourselves
from old customs and obligations that no longer serve us. So let
the Narghûla give up as much as the rest of us have. And if they
refuse to do that, then let them take their chances outside these
walls. Plenty of dead out there for them to gnaw on.”
“The dead out there gnaw back. Have you tried speaking with
them?”
“Myself ? No. Others? Many times. You would have better luck
asking the wind not to blow. The Narghûla refuse to see another way.”
“So now your way is slaughter.”
“At least they see that.” Khaigar clapped him on the back, and
nudged him to turn around for the return walk. “I show them as
much mercy as I can. They may look gruesome when we’re done
with them, but they die instantly. They do not suffer.”
“Your heart is hardened in this,” Fáerin said once they
were in the Ouazi camp again. “Nothing I can say can make
a difference?”
“Did you really think it would?” Khaigar clasped him by the
shoulders. “You have done your part as peacemaker. You are a good
and true Surinzan. You spoke of the Meliae earlier? Don’t think I
fail to recognize this is what stirs your heart more than any love
for the Narghûla. That a Surinzan feels a need to protect, and
to create beauty for the world, in payment for what his fathers
allowed to die… this is known to me. If I could take that burden
from you, I would. But you must throw it off yourself. And not
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at my expense.”
Fáerin reached to his own shoulder and laid one hand over
Khaigar’s. “A fire is good for thinking things over. I’ll leave you to
it. I hope we don’t see each other again too soon.”
“Another twenty years, perhaps. If we’re lucky we’ll be turning
old and fat then, and your arms will have new burns you can show
me.” Khaigar let him go. “You are as good a friend to the Narghûla
as you were to me. The difference is, they do not know it. Now I
ask you to go in peace, and to keep it that way.”
THE NEXT MORNING he left his forge unlit again and began recruiting
guards. There were Surinzan who welcomed the chance to take up
the sleaghar once more, with true purpose behind it, while others
grew offended he would ask. Not their fight, they told him, and
often showed that nothing angered a coward more than a chance
to prove he wasn’t one.
Still, their numbers grew. A handful at first — himself and
Rowina and Maidóc, in his off-hours from the Watch. A few others.
Then ten, then twenty, then thirty and more, enough for teams of
three to always be on duty. They escorted ghûl slaves within the
Inner City as they did errands for their masters, and, more crucially,
when they procured the carcasses of freshly dead beasts and brought
them to the Southside park where they chanted and fed upon lost
life that was destined for the earth again.
But what of the ghûl in the Outer City, his volunteers wanted
to know. After all, that was where the heart of ghûl society was.
Were they not at risk?
“I think they’re safe for now,” Fáerin said. “They’re too many
to attack, and by now they know what’s going on here in the Inner
City. They’re too canny to be caught alone, or in twos and threes.
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they were, that behind closed doors, they didn’t drop the masks to
haggle and bargain for the interests of themselves and their own
people, with no one at the table to advocate for dwarves and elves
and, least of all, the ghûl.
“Compared to the rest of us, the ghûls’ numbers are tiny. They
are down to but a few thousand. And yet, are thorns not tiny,
especially when lodged where they don’t belong?” The Hoodsman
spoke, but Fáerin heard the voice of magisters. “The ghûl are prized
as slaves because they will never return from death to wreak havoc
on a household. Yet this does not entirely release their masters
from worry. The ghûl are not made for cities. They are made for the
wilds. Like any wild animal brought where it does not belong, there
is always the fear of it turning on the hand that is kindest to it.”
Fáerin took a few moments to seize one of his hammers and
pound at the latest strands of mesh taking shape on his anvil, to
see which Hoodsmen jumped. “They’re scruffy, I’ll grant you that.
And there are times you don’t want to be downwind of them. But
wild beasts, they’re not.”
Rowina hitched her thumb at him, apparently deciding to try
disarming charm for a change. “I could say the very same things
about Fáerin.” She made a show of sniffing the air. Ah. So much
for charm. “And one or two of you lot, as well, though I’m not sure
which ones it is.”
The Hoodsman appeared unmoved. “They have had three
generations to fit in here. They have not. This is a problem.
Sometimes the most prudent course of action is to step back and
let problems naturally work themselves out.”
It was about all they’d come to say. The rest was but arrogance.
“You shouldn’t antagonize them,” Fáerin told Rowina once
they were gone. “You should leave that to me.”
“That so, is it?” She threw an arm around his shoulders. “There
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were enough of them for both of us, and you looked like you needed
the help.” She leaned her face in closer, brow to brow and nose to
nose. “Besides, your implications are my implications. Otherwise,
it’s a waste of a perfectly good handfasting, isn’t it?”
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HER NAME WAS Gwenori, and if she wasn’t lying about it, she was
fifteen, as young as Fáerin would allow in his ranks. She was tall
enough, as strapping as any lad her age and more than many, and,
like Rowina, wielded her spear with a precise and practiced fury.
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She knotted her hair at the crown of her head, except for a thick
black strand hanging in front of each ear, and painted a blue slash
beneath each almond-shaped eye. He supposed she thought it made
her look fierce, and agreed — it helped. She was green, though, so
he kept her close, because it was in his nature to worry.
“Why Fáerin Tree-Foot?” she asked late one afternoon as the
days grew shorter and the sunlight colder. “How did you earn
that name?”
Behind them, some twenty-odd ghûl gathered in the park,
and his guards were out in force, a dozen of them encircling its
low stone wall.
“How do you think I earned it? You must have an idea of your own.”
“It’s because you didn’t run in battle.” Gwenori sounded very
confident, as if there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation.
“While everyone else took off at the sight of the enemy, you stood
and held your ground. Like you’d grown roots.”
He had to grin. “What battle would that be?”
Now she began to waver. “I… don’t know. One before my time,
I guess.”
“They were all before my time, too. I still like your idea better.”
He peered ahead at roofs and street, watching people go about their
business while the ghûl went about theirs. “They called me Tree-Foot
because when I was first learning the forms with the sleaghar, I wouldn’t
really turn myself loose and move with it. I grew roots, all right, just
at the wrong time. I didn’t leap, I didn’t spin, I didn’t lunge very well.
I didn’t bring the chaos to the fight. I just kind of plodded along.”
If the truth disappointed, Gwenori didn’t show it. “Why? What
held you back?”
“What usually holds us back? Fear.”
“What were you afraid of ? It was only training.”
“Fear of committing, I suppose. To the move, to the strike.
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Fear of leaving myself open. It was hard getting it into me that it’s
not enough to stand there looking ready for anything. You have to
show you’re capable of anything.”
She nodded, slowly, in that way of someone recognizing a truth
no one had ever bothered telling her. “You should get a new name.
You’re not like that now.”
“I figure I’ll hang onto it. Who knows, there could come a day
when it might mean what you thought it did. Something to live
up to, right?”
At their backs, the ghûl had begun their chant. It was the only
thing about their rites he found unnerving, the sound harsh and
abrading to the ear, a lower tone than a man could make, resonating
from deep inside their bigger bodies. Like the voice of a boulder if
it awoke with a need to sing.
And he could feel Gwenori staring at him, working toward
another question.
“Who were the Meliae?” she asked.
He blinked at her. “You’re telling me you don’t know?”
“I’ve heard of them, but never in much more than whisper. I’ve
asked, but it’s something my father won’t talk about. He says it’s
just old stories, not worth wasting time on. That’s a first. Get him
going about anything else, he’ll talk your leg off and then chase
you as you’re trying to hop away on the other one.”
That was what they were coming to as a people, wasn’t it?
Intent on erasing the memory of what they’d done to get here and
call this place home.
“When it comes to the Meliae,” he said, “there are two kinds
of Surinzan. Those who don’t want us to remember, and those who
think we can’t afford to forget. Those of us who don’t want to forget
seem to be losing.”
He scanned the street, up and down, and found them quickly
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clearing out. Typical. Let that ghûl chant get started, and people
found a reason to hurry someplace else where they wouldn’t have to
hear it. The thinning out always tightened his gut. Crowds were safer.
“As to what the Meliae were like,” he went on, “I can’t tell you
firsthand. Never met one, myself. Long dead before I ever came into
this world, and my father before me, too. Supposed to be closest to
elves… but more, if that makes sense. They were like if there’d been
trees that stood five hundred years and one day became people.
That’s how well they fit the land around them, and understood it.
There wasn’t anything that could happen for miles in any direction
they wouldn’t know about. If a bird dropped dead off its limb a mile
away, they’d know. It’s said they were so attuned to the wilds they
lived in that they could feel each stone in a stream as the water
wore them down.”
She gazed at nothing with a dreamy look. “They sound too
good for the world.”
“Just right for the world that was. Maybe even the best of it.
But much too good for what it became. When the dead got restless,
it broke them. From the inside. Drove them mad, some of them.
And a Melia gone mad was a sad and terrifying thing. Don’t make
the mistake of thinking they were just some pretty tribe of flower-
sniffers. No, fierce fighters, they were. Some of the mad ones laid
waste to everything around them, and the rest just dropped and
died of it, like they’d been poisoned.”
He kept his eyes leveled ahead, and his hands twisted the shaft
of his sleaghar like he was wringing a neck. He wasn’t sure why.
“As the world got worse, the surviving Meliae from other parts
fell back to their woodland keep, the Spyre. That was to them what
this mountain was to the dwarves once. Just not as secure. The
Meliae were our allies, and they thought we were theirs. As the
Dead filled the land, we promised to help them make their stand,
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and then all make our way here together. Only we didn’t. Our great-
grandfathers had different ideas. No detours. No honoring a pact.
They made straight for the gates here and didn’t look back. We left
the Meliae to be overrun. Alone. And that was the end of them.”
Beside him, Gwenori let out a breath she’d been holding in a
long time. Some things, when you learned them, were too terrible
for words. You could only let them hit you, knock the air from you,
and turn your last meal sour in your belly.
She gave him an imploring look, as if something now made
sense. “Maidóc says you wrote a song once, that people didn’t like.
Years back. That’s what it was about, wasn’t it? You tried to keep
that story alive in a song.”
“Aye,” he said. “I had a rough night when some people let me
know just how much they didn’t like it. Takes more than a whip
to drive out a song, though. You’d have to cut out every tongue
willing to sing it.”
He narrowed his eyes, screening them from the lowering slant
of the sun. He couldn’t say why he didn’t like the shadows today.
He just… didn’t.
Beside him, Gwenori showed why, despite her stature and
her poise, she was but fifteen. “Maybe there are still some Meliae
out there, somewhere. Hiding. Waiting until it’s safe to come out
again. You think?”
“No. I think if there were, the world would feel different.”
“Different how?”
“Like there’s more hope in it.”
It was a cruel thing to say. Maybe he should have let her believe.
Or maybe he could’ve said nothing more fitting, the last thing
she heard before the stone whizzed in to take her cheek. One
moment she was standing beside him, and the next, her head
snapped with a crack and she flopped back against the stone pillar
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She gave him a smile, the one he never understood how she
could make at such times, because she always seemed to fight her
fears to a standstill so much sooner than he did. “Then we’ll wake
in the Summerfields, far away from here. There are worse mistakes
you could’ve made.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “The day’s not over.”
A minute later, one of the runners he’d sent after their attacker
came sprinting back to the fold.
“We have him. Caught up with him three blocks from here.”
He glanced about to take in the mood of those who remained and
decided to lower his voice. “You should maybe come with me, rather
than we drag him back here. It’s just a boy.”
Further split up their ranks? Fáerin hated the thought of it.
But his runner had a point. The rest of them were rattled now. And
angry. The last thing he needed was to trigger a rift between those
who knew how to tame their nerves and those who felt just brave
enough to beat the truth out of a boy.
Fáerin turned around to leave Rowina in charge of them, and
saw the guards at the park entrance parting, backing away with
murmurs of confusion, spears at the ready but seeming unsure if
they should use them or not.
The ghûl stood a head above the tallest of them. It did not
hunch, did not slink or skulk, and above all, did not move with the
deference of a slave. Its coarse hide was the color of charcoal, like
a creature made from dusk and twilight shadows, and the leathery
bare skin of its belly was traced with the pale ghosts of old scars.
It halted only when it towered above Gwenori as she lay on
the ground. The girl had regained her senses, and turned away on
her side to burrow into Rowina.
“Stay your spear, Éogun!” he ordered when he saw what one of
the younger men appeared about to do. He couldn’t let that happen
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a torn flower.
Then she licked at the wound until its ragged edges began to
knit and close.
She tended the wound until all it needed was time to be
forgotten.
And through it all, her eyes remained shut.
At last, the ghûl set her down again — Gwenori still unsteady
on her feet — and, with a sound like a growl of chastisement, loped
back into the courtyard as they stared at her back.
Could the Meliae have done better? He had no idea if the
Meliae could have managed such a thing at all. He had no idea if
this could even be called magic. There was nothing counter to the
ways of nature in it. Only nature hastened. The act of a being who
lived so close to the earth it knew how to speed up the nature of
another.
He did not want to see that lost.
Rowina pressed against his shoulder, her lips at his ear. “There’ll
be time to think on this later. Right now, you’d best make sure that
the two of us out there who didn’t see this don’t get tired of waiting
and kill that foolish boy.”
THE OTHER TWO pursuers he’d sent were detaining the Ouazi boy
in an alleyway, inside a low, arched tunnel that burrowed beneath
the buildings above. They kept him braced against a wall, standing
shoulder-to-shoulder to block him, leaning on him now and again.
“He’s a frisky thing,” one of the men said, but if the youth
had been trying to wriggle past them to get away, he’d given it
up as futile.
Good. Fáerin wanted him frightened. Wanted him defeated
and his spirit broken. He wiped the last minutes from his mind
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“If all Khaigar is sending after us today is boys who can’t even be
sure of their aim, then he has a reason for keeping his more skilled
Baqyri in the Outer City,” he told his guards. “I think he means
to attack the free ghûl tonight. Strike at the very heart of them.”
He heard his own arguments thrown back to him, every reason
he’d thought the free ghûl would be safe: that there are too many
of them, too big and powerful to attack head-on. That free ghûl
would not be shackled by the enforced restraint of slaves.
“If Khaigar dares do this,” Fáerin said, “then he’s devised a way
to make their size and numbers count for nothing.”
HE HAD HIS core group leave the park behind. He sent one runner to
pull the second squad from Eastside; another to round up as many
of the off-duty volunteers as could be found, all of them to meet just
beyond the Southgate, where the Inner City gave way to the Outer.
It was not a lawless zone, the Outer City, but neither was it
a place where the Watch took pains to safeguard it from itself,
as long as transgressions didn’t involve the farms. Life really was
cheaper on these crowded plains. Terrible things could happen out
here, and did, and rarely were they punished, because no one ever
saw anything. Fáerin had to assume Khaigar was counting on that.
It was only ghûl under threat, after all. It wasn’t just the
Hoodsmen and those they represented who were willing to tolerate
slaughter. Maidóc knew how feelings really ran in the Watch, as well.
There’s pity for them. The ghûl didn’t bring this on themselves. They
don’t deserve it. But they’re not people. That’s the crux of it. They don’t
look it, don’t sound it, and don’t much act like it. So maybe they shouldn’t
be living so close to what’s left of people, just trying to keep themselves
alive. Better all around, maybe, if they weren’t. That’s the feeling, anyway.
As soon as his group crossed over to the Outer City’s stink
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everywhere, what’s three more?” The scout stirred at the dirt with
a fingertip. “Maybe there’s a murrain that’s got started somewhere
and set in. That’d drop three at once, with more to come.”
Fáerin shifted from one knee to the other and listened to the
ghûl chant. When a breeze shifted, he could smell decay coming
from their encampment. Maybe one of those carcasses wasn’t so
fresh. This was a bad position to be in. He wanted to be wrong,
wanted this night to pass just like any other for the ghûl. But if he
was wrong, his people might be slower to believe next time.
“Could be that boy who went at us was up there because that’s
what Khaigar’s down to,” the scout said. “Maybe the ones with sense
are dropping out on him. They weren’t counting on the likes of us
standing up. It’s what we wanted, isn’t it?”
“It is. I’ve just never known the Ouazi to back down so easily.
Sometimes they fight you openly. But sometimes they fight you
with deception. They show you what you want to see while they
do something else.”
As the moons rose, Fáerin left his shield and spear behind as he
merged with the night and drifted back across a narrow no-man’s-
land, toward the Ouazi camptown. He had to see for himself, and
found the Ouazi separatists seemingly tranquil and listless around
their fires. He watched as they sat in their groups, listened to the
music that lifted into the night, the forlorn scraping of bows on the
strings of their igyyts and the plaintive wailing of their lamentations.
There were no songs of joy or mirth. There were no songs of
riding.
He watched, listened, as the cold weighed heavy in his chest.
And he did not like this. Something was wrong here. In spite
of how normal it all looked, something was wrong. They show me
what I want to see, while they do something else.
He closed his eyes. Never mind what they showed him. Just
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listen. Pick out one voice, follow it. Pick another. Follow it. He didn’t
know the words, didn’t know if they were singing of lost lands or
forsaken eagles. But he sensed the feeling behind them, raw and
naked, the screaming caused by a wound that would never heal.
He knew as well as anyone, and bore the scars to prove it: A sad
song could be more than mourning. With enough feeling behind
it, it could be an incitement to fury.
He opened his eyes to the night again.
The Ouazi came and went around their fires, with more going
than coming. He saw that now. They were not moving en masse.
They were slipping away one by one, never to return to the fireside.
He sprang from his crouch and sprinted north again, fast as
he could, and the nearer he drew to the ghûl, the more apparent
it became that a great hue-and-cry was arising within the heart
of their camp. Their voices were frightful enough in chant and
thanksgiving. They were terrifying in rage. But this — this was
worst of all, an eruption of confusion and suffering. This was the
sound of betrayal at its worst.
His guards were on their feet already. Fáerin snatched up his
shield and spear and ran another dozen paces past them, trying to
piece together what was happening.
A moment later, Rowina was at his shoulder. “There’s still been
no attack. We’d hear it if there was.”
“There will be,” Fáerin said. “It’s coming.”
Ahead of them, the ghûls’ orderly circles broke apart into chaos
and fear. So this was what they sounded like when death came for
them, and they were not ready. This was they sounded like when
they saw their world ending. The terror in it raised the hairs on the
back of his neck, and tore the heart from his chest.
Had the Meliae sounded like this, when their end came?
From the south rose a rumble like distant thunder, the sound
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and the dead, Fáerin shouted for his guards to slide a step back. Let
the next Ouazi be the ones to stumble over the bodies. And when
they did, Fáerin had his guards windmill their spears back, then
whip them forward again, this time under the shields, to stab and
slash at the assassins sprawled at their feet. Shoulders and thighs,
wrists and elbows — he wasn’t so much intent on killing them as
taking away their mobility. An Ouazi who couldn’t whirl a girga,
who couldn’t throw a javelin or dagger, was little threat.
In those first moments of the clash, he robbed them of as much
as he could, while he could, until he heard Khaigar ool-Nacheen
calling for his men to fall back and regroup.
Range. Khaigar wanted range. Now he had to rob them of
that, too.
“Break the wall and give chase while you can,” Fáerin ordered.
“Groups of four, cover and strike.”
The Ouazi were swifter in retreat than the Surinzan were in
pursuit, slowed by the weight of the reinforced shields. They began
to take their own casualties then. One of the guards was crippled
by a javelin that skewered his knee, another felled by a stone to
the head. Still, they were fighting by moonlight and the glow of
nearby fires. The Ouazi’s aim was more lethal by day. They were
assassins, not a disciplined unit forged to come together as one.
They couldn’t retreat and strike at the same time, and they hadn’t
come equipped for a melee.
They had come for the wrong fight.
Still, they battled, and when the scrum was too close for using
girgas, they used the last of their javelins like spears. But javelins
were meant for flight, not for thrusting or slashing — their reach
fell short and their thinner shafts were easily shattered. When their
javelins were gone they fought with daggers. For every Surinzan
who fell, the Baqyri lost three, then four, with worse wounds that
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THE SPORT OF CROWS
to die, either.”
“Narghûla magic?” Khaigar shook his head over the dead and
the dying. “They would not want it. And I will not ask.”
In time, sooner than the weariness in them made it seem, a
torchlight procession streamed across the plains from the Southgate of
the Inner City. Long, it was, like a great worm made of fire, twisting
through the fields and shantytowns, marching closer, always closer,
until it split to surround them, and he saw the cloaks of the Watch.
Their spears had a long reach, and were leveled, a bristling ring
of iron lit by fire.
AS THE SKY spit the winter’s first tiny snowflakes over the land, the
River Gate of the Outer City closed at their backs and the whole
of the fallen world lay before them.
A few days of confinement in the White Citadel’s central gaol,
an hour before a tribunal of the Magisterium, and it was decreed:
exile, the only suitable punishment for waging war within the city
of Redoubt.
It came as less of a surprise than the magistrates may have
thought. Days in a cell will give anyone ample time to think and
talk and gauge all possible futures.
It doesn’t matter that you took it on yourself to do what they weren’t
willing to do, to protect who they weren’t willing to protect. It doesn’t
matter that you stopped a slaughter, Maidóc the Bald told him. What
matters is that you have a knack for keeping alive the memory of what
some would rather see forgotten. What matters is that we gave them just
what they wanted: a reason to be rid of you.
Maybe that’s what fate really was, at the root of it. Favors behind
closed doors negotiated between men you’d never met, the latest
in an endless cycle of obligations that would always be repaid at
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THE SPORT OF CROWS
73
THE
BONE-SHAKER’S
DAUGHTER
MERCEDES M. YARDLEY
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THE BONE-SHAKER’ S DAUGHTER
was the most meaningful experience of his life. She started to hum
and dance, the delicate, elegant ways of her people, bending and
weaving before him like a plant moving in the wind and stream.
But Breillig couldn’t say these things. He felt the weight of
his elven blood, of the grandeur they had experienced once. That
greatness was there, deep inside, riding around his circulatory system
like his familial madness, and then he was ashamed again, looking
at his soft shoes covered in dust and scat and filthy puddles of water
that made up the alleyways of Redoubt.
“We are nothing,” he whispered, and the sheer starkness of it
made him ball up his fists. “We were made for more than this.”
Tema stopped dancing, and the sound and beauty of the
morning was gone. She studied Breilig carefully before putting
the gourd back into the folds of her robe.
“We escaped for a minute, didn’t we,” she said. It wasn’t a
question, but a fact. She pushed her fine hair out of her eyes and
turned her lips up, but the smile wouldn’t come. “For just a second,
we were somewhere else, you and I. And then you were somewhere
else, all alone.”
“I was here,” he said. He refused to look at her. “Always here.
There’s nowhere else for me to be. Nowhere to escape to.”
He stood there, tall and broken. Scarred inside and out. Tema
reached out and took his hand. She held it in hers, and then brought
it to her lips.
“How long have we known each other?” she asked him. Her
pale eyes were full of moons and stars and secrets. He had looked
at those eyes his whole life, wondering what swam in them.
“Always,” he answered. “We’ve known each other always. Since
before time, I sometimes think.”
“How many years have I sneaked away from my father to come
visit you? To ask about your ways and run my fingers through your
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dark hair and escape, however briefly, from the life of a bone-
shaker’s daughter?”
“Many.”
“And you, Breilig. How many years have you crept away
from your people, slipping through the alleyways and past the
marketplace, in order to meet me? To sit on the walls of the city
and watch the Dead howl outside, to talk about despair and beauty
and all of the things that makes life worth living? How many?”
“Many.”
“Many, and many, and many again. And, if the gods allow,
even more years.”
“Perhaps the gods will have pity and there will be no more
years at all. The Dead will overcome all of us. It will be the end to
a civilization that already ended years ago.”
Tema’s eyes, full of stars and moons earlier, began to fill with
storms and lightning and the angry, shaking spears of her people.
She slipped her hands from his and put them on her hips, standing
upright and proud and strong, although she still only hit his shoulders.
“Breilig, son of Ca’arn, I will not hear you speak in such a
manner! Cease feeling sorry for yourself ! There is life here. It may
not be a very easy life, but it’s life and it is worth fighting for. Every
morning I arise and see the sun. Yes, I see rats and refuse and
children who have starved through the night. I see another loved
one thrown on the Corpseman’s cart to be taken away before she
can rise and harm us all. I see the same things you see, and what’s
more, I see a wonderful, caring elf wallowing in his own sadness
when he could be using his time to create something.
“Make something beautiful. Make life worth living for
somebody else, if not for yourself. Make an effort for me. I spent
time harvesting and grinding, breaking and polishing this bone to
make music for you. For just a brief time, I wanted you to think of
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MERCEDES M . YA R D L EY
“Th-thank you,” she managed, still out of breath. She used the
sleeve of her robe to wipe her tears away. She flushed and stared at
the ground. “I’m sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going, miss. It’s dangerous.”
“I didn’t mean to run into you, erus. I wasn’t—”
“No, look,” he said, and pointed. Tema stood on her tiptoes to
see what he meant.
“That old woman?” she asked.
“She refuses to give up her dead. She has hidden his body for
two days already.”
“But she can’t do that!”
“No, she can’t.”
The man’s voice sounded heavy, tired and sorrowful like every
other person’s in Redoubt. She wanted to shake him, tell him to
fight for life, but after what had just happened with Breilig, she
felt weary and sorrowful, as well.
An old woman whose face must have been gentle, once, was
clinging to the body of a man. The way she curled her fingers into
his clothing told her that he must have been her son.
“Don’t take him from me,” she screamed. “I can’t let him go
like this!”
A slim man with scars across his face put his hand gently on
her shoulder. She shook it off and spat at him.
“You know the ways, Hannah. You know this must be. We
can’t allow him to stay. You have put us in grave danger already.
He already starts to stink.”
“He’s all I have,” she wailed, and Tema’s heart hurt at the sound
of it. “Don’t take away the only thing I have.”
“Hannah, he’s gone. He’s already dead. Now we just need—”
Tema heard the bells of the Undertaking. The Corpsemen as
they came near. The sound was loud, jarring, painful, and unholy.
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“No,” the old woman said, and threw herself atop her son’s body
again. “They’re coming to take him!”
“They must take him. You know there is no other choice.”
“He’s a good boy. A sweet boy. He would never hurt anybody!
That isn’t his way.”
The man shook his head.
“My wife was good, too. Never hurt a soul when she was alive.
But after death, she wasn’t herself anymore. None of them are. This
thing, this curse, it’s stronger than we are. If it was a matter of will,
we wouldn’t all be walled up in this filthy city, would we?”
Tema hid behind the tall man she had run into.
“Doesn’t she know it’s better to give the body willingly?”
“Love blinds us when it comes to our dead,” he answered.
“Common sense doesn’t always prevail.”
The first of the Takers came by. He was shaped like a barrel
and most likely had just as much ale in him most nights. Who
wouldn’t, seeing what he had seen?
“Bring me your dead,” he called, and his voice was hoarse and
weary behind the words. He was a man who had said this phrase
far too many times. “Bring me your dead.”
“Here,” the man called, and pulled the old woman away easily.
Her scream sounded like death itself. “We have one here.”
The rest of the Corpsemen arrived, big men with swords and
long boar spears. A team of indentured dwarves dragged an iron
cage behind them, with bodies flung inside.
Two of the men wordlessly grabbed the body and tossed it in
with the others. It settled heavily, indiscreetly, its leg turning at an
odd angle.
“My boy,” shrieked the old woman as she was held back. “My son!”
“We all must deal with loss,” the barrel-shaped man said, and
turned. “Bring me your dead,” he called, and the grim parade passed on.
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“I feel sorry for her,” Tema whispered to the tall man, but he
quickly held out his hand.
“Look,” he said, and something in his tone chilled her, made
her shiver all the way down to her thin fabric slippers. A wrongness
crept through the air, dug its way to her marrow, and she faintly
wondered if she’d be sick.
The son’s body began to move.
Just a little, at first, so slowly that Tema wondered if she hadn’t
really seen it at all. A curl of the fingers. A jostle of the leg.
But then the head turned, slowly, much farther than any neck
should allow it, and the snap of bone didn’t sound clean, like her
father’s work, but instead a dark, loathsome thing.
“Quickly!” shouted one of the Takers, and he roughly pushed
the crowd aside while two other men rushed the cart.
The old woman screamed and stepped in front of them. They
slowed, but only barely, shoving her out of their path. She was nothing
more than sinew and linen. An ancient relic from old times. She stood
between them and the thing that was now growing strong, now fighting
its way from the cage with the unholy strength only seen in the depths
of hell, now climbing the side of the building like a hissing lizard.
That’s the sight that would stay with Tema for all of her days.
The man with his head turned around completely backwards, scaling
the wall, his tongue hanging from his dislocated jaw.
“Move, girl!” The tall man pushed her back toward the way she
had come, when she had fled Breilig. “Run!”
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t do anything more than stand
and stare as the now-alive dead thing zipped toward her. How it
moved so fast, she didn’t know. What unholy arcana made it stick
to the walls like that, she would never be able to say, but right now
all that mattered was that she was screaming at her feet to run and
they simply couldn’t do so.
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She closed her eyes, covered her face so the last thing she saw would
be her bone-shaker’s fingers instead of some crazy woman’s dead son.
There were roars and shouts. Thuds and the sound of steel
against stone. The old woman shrieking again until suddenly her
voice cut off in a way that made Tema drop a hand to her throat
without thinking.
“Look,” the tall man said, and grabbed Tema roughly by the
shoulders. “They subdued it. Hacked it apart. Next they’ll burn
what remains before it has a chance to do anything again.”
“Move!” shouted the head Corpseman, and the cart jangled
and clanged unmusically as it rolled forward. Tema turned her face
away from the dismembered limbs on the rusty iron gate and the
shine of fresh blood on the Taker’s weapons.
Corpses didn’t bleed. She knew that. She continued to look
away from the carnage, but instead looked at where the old woman
had been standing.
“It’s a shame,” the tall man said, “but she needed to let him go.
We have to release the dead.”
“And remember the living,” Tema said, but the man had already
moved on. She heard the sounds of chickens and running feet, vendors
hawking their wares and the Corpsemen’s bells fading into the distance.
Just another day in the city, trying to find a reason to stay alive.
“Tema.”
She heard her name and turned. There stood her reason, right
in front of her.
“Are you all right?” Breilig asked. He dusted the dirt from her
clothes and briefly took her hand before pulling away. “I saw what
happened. I couldn’t get here fast enough.”
“Do you ever feel,” she asked him a bit dazedly, “that maybe we
spend our time on trivial things when something very important
is right in front of us?”
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“I do,” he said, and this time when he took her hand, he didn’t
let go.
BREILIG SPENT THAT night, and several after, with Tema. They had
been together since they were children, but only covertly, and never
in such an intimate way.
“A human and an elf ?” he mused, tracing ancient elven words
on her bare shoulder with his finger. “Father wouldn’t stand for it,
of course. How am I to,” he deepened his voice to impersonate his
father, “restore the former glory of our race without a proper heir?”
Tema shrugged.
“I would like children, too. I always thought I would have
them. But in the end I need to choose what is best for me, Breilig,
and that is you. Children would be a joy. But they would also be a
concern and a heartache. I want more than anything to be yours
and have your child, but that cannot be. So do I choose you, without
children, or life without you? It’s no choice, really.”
She kissed him, and her mouth was a wonder. He wondered
why he had taken so long to sample it.
Fear. Shame. All of the heavy words he loathed to think of.
“Darling, I’m losing you. Where are you going?”
“I’m here,” he said, and smiled. “I’m right here.”
“Exactly where you’re supposed to be, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Stay with me,” she said, and wrapped her arms around his
neck. She laced her fingers in his dark hair. “Promise me that, my
brooding elf. Can you?”
“I will,” he said. “There’s nothing I want more.”
When he returned home, he crept into the scant wooden hovel
like a child who had done something wrong.
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MERCEDES M . YA R D L EY
The way she created music this morning in order to move his soul…
he washed the stench of Redoubt from his skin and dressed into
clean linens with a sigh. His father was old and it would not harm
him to please the old man and at least meet the girl.
She smelled of sunlight. She stood tall and slim, her dark hair
pulled back and pinned with vines and flowers somehow found
within the city walls. She had black eyes full of secrets that he found
himself wanting to learn. Her eyes matched his own.
“My name is Pristlin,” she said, and dipped her head briefly.
He did the same. Stood. Didn’t know what to say.
Pristlin licked her lips.
“Your father told me… he said that…” She took a deep breath.
“Your father told me that you are to be my groom. If this pleases
you, of course.”
Still, Breilig stared.
“I know how strange this must be for you,” she continued on.
“It’s certainly strange for me. But I believe in this race, and in our
strength. I believe we can band together and achieve our former
glory. Be powerful again! I believe we can do this, you and I.”
She took his hand in both of hers. Her fingers were long and
tan. They intertwined beautifully within his. She held them to her
breast and her eyes glowed with a passion that made him catch his
breath. Something moved within his soul.
“Will you accept me, Breilig, son of Ca’an? Allow me to be your
wife, and together we will raise the new elven King of Redoubt?”
She was slim where Tema was round. Lean where Tema was
soft. Elegant where Tema now seemed like a clumsy colt, frolicking
through the streets without a care. Pristlin was a woman, concerned
about the resurgence of their people. She wouldn’t tell him not to
worry. She wouldn’t think he was being far too serious.
“Do you really believe we can raise our child to greatness?” he asked.
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MERCEDES M . YA R D L EY
“Yes, well, anything for Breilig. He’s my best friend,” Tema said.
Her white fingers twisted around in her dress.
“Yes, he told me all about how you two were sweet little
childhood friends. I’m so glad he had you while growing up.”
“So was I,” Tema said, and then she excused herself to run to the
city wall. Breilig and his new bride wrapped their hands together and
said their vows in the old Elven tongue. Tema sat on the filthy stone
wall and cried, her tears falling on her short, pasty human hands.
Time is a wicked thing, uncaring and forlorn, and it stops for no
one. Years passed and Breilig, his eyes sparking with madness, conceived
his first child with pretty Pristlin. He was a boy, a strong, healthy heir,
and from the day of his birth he was the crowning glory of the elves.
He was dark and quick, sensitive and strong. He was taught
manners, skills, and just enough ruthlessness to ensure his success.
His black curls licked around his ears, just like his father’s.
His smile? That was his mother’s, and it tore Tema apart every
time she saw it.
Breilig bedded her occasionally, when he was upset or tired or
the weight of his responsibility became too much to bear.
“Shhh,” Tema would say, brushing his hair out as they hid away.
“You are not Breilig, son of Ca’an, husband of Pristlin, father of an
elven heir to me. You are only my dear friend, my only love, and
always have been. Peace. Think of us tonight, and nothing more.”
But he couldn’t think of Tema without thinking of her father
and his arrogance. Of his finery and the fact that he unknowingly
provided scraps to clothe Breilig’s bride on their wedding day. He
lost himself in this arrogant man’s daughter, and quietly delighted in
the horror he knew it would bring if Tema’s father ever found out.
One afternoon Tema was sitting on the one of the walls
protecting Redoubt. She was humming, using a small knife to
carve holes in a bleached piece of bone.
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MERCEDES M . YA R D L EY
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THE BONE-SHAKER’ S DAUGHTER
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“He doesn’t have his mother. She left, for whatever reason. He
needs you, darling. You have to be strong for him.”
“I can’t.” His eyes nearly pinwheeled in his head as he looked
at her. “You do it, Tema. Pretend he’s our child, yours and mine.
Remember when we thought we had to choose? Each other or a
child?” He laughed and the sound was far too wild, much too loud.
Tema drew back from him.
“I don’t like seeing you this way,” she said, and Breilig howled
again in response.
“’Be strong.’ ‘Be a father.’ ‘Be a leader.’ ‘Calm down.’ Everybody
wants something from me,” he growled. “Leave me alone!” He hurled
the soup and the bowl crashed against the wall. “Leave me be!”
Tema turned and fled into the night.
BREILIG SLIPPED INTO a fever that wouldn’t loosen its grasp on him.
He saw his wife bending over his bed, speaking to him. She told
him stories of the old ways, of their former glory.
“It will come again, my husband,” she whispered to him. Her
voice was like rain on parched roots. “You and our son will raise
our people to glory again.”
After the fever broke, he lay weak and stinking upon the rags
he used for a bed. He called feebly for his son, but nobody came
to his door.
“Pristlin? Tema?”
He stood and stumbled, catching himself on a rough piece of
wood that he used for a table. A too-soft apple was there, and he
took a bite. Another. Realized the flesh was delicious and the juice
was heaven on his tongue.
Breilig staggered into the alleyway. Life flowed around him,
almost as perceptible as death usually was. A woman walked by with
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flowers in her hair. A child pranced past with a crudely carved toy.
He followed the woman and child, slowly and for no particular
reason. It felt good to be awake, to wander. The air was full of dust
and smoke, brick and sewage. The elf tasted traces of honey and
freshly baked bread, sweat of the laborers and the galley girls.
He found himself near the wall where he used to meet Tema,
and it was no surprise to him that she was there.
“Tema,” he breathed, and set down heavily next to her. “It has
been days since I saw you last.”
“Weeks,” she said. She didn’t face him, but stared out into the
desolate lands beyond the city.
“I’m sorry for how I was to you. You didn’t deserve it. You’ve
done nothing but be a friend.”
“Friend,” she repeated, and the way she said the word, high
and tuneless, made Breilig give her a second glance.
“Are you well, my dear one?” He asked her.
She laughed, and it reminded him of the Undertaking’s bells,
such a cacophony of sound. The wrongness made his stomach
tighten, and he reached for her.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, and Breilig drew his hand back
in surprise.
“You aren’t well,” he said, and he wondered briefly what he
should do. If his family’s madness had managed to touch his lover,
or if she had been touched by the unholy and undead. He wondered
briefly if he should call for help or perhaps flee, but then he saw
the tears on her cheeks and he was immediately ashamed.
“I have wronged you,” he said quietly, “and for that I am—“
“Does your every sentence begin with the word I, Breilig? Is
that all you can think of ? Yourself ?”
Her words were cutting. The voice didn’t even sound like hers,
but shrill and dead, choked out of her throat by emotions not of
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MERCEDES M . YA R D L EY
her own.
“I didn’t mean—”
“And there you go again. It’s always about you. Your honor, your
people. Your wife, your child. But what about me? I always loved
you, and you never saw. Then, when I told you, you threw me away
as soon as an elf maiden came along.”
“It wasn’t right.”
“No, it wasn’t. But I forgave you, because that’s what you do
for the ones you love. Love, Brielig. Not tolerate or use. Those are
different things entirely.”
The wailing of the undead grew louder. They were gathered
together at the base of the wall, pushing against the stone. Tema
looked down at them with pity.
“They are my children,” she said sadly. “They are the ones we
will join. I will, you will. All of us, eventually. Whether the walls
fall or the Dead overrun us from the inside out, this is how it will
be. You must see it as surely as I do.”
“But what is it that you always say? Every second of hope or
joy is worth it? Have you forgotten that?”
“You never believed it,” she said. “Don’t pretend to believe it now.”
She pulled a long bone flute from her billowing sleeve. It
shone in the last rays of the sun, so beautiful and intricately carved
that he gasped.
“You like it?” She asked and smiled. Her smile was sweet and
genuine and reminded him of all the smiles they had shared since
Tema was a child. “It’s my greatest treasure. A true thing of beauty.
Shall I play for you?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
She yelled down at the frenzied masses outside of the walls.
“I’ll play for you, too, shall I?”
Her song was soft, sweet. The clearness through the flute of
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THE BONE-SHAKER’ S DAUGHTER
bone filled Breilig with joy and loss. Sorrow and whimsy. He wanted
to weep and sing and dance.
“Your wife is down there,” Tema said, and put the flute back
to her lips.
“What is that?” he asked her. “I must have heard you incorrectly.”
“I see her sometimes. A flash of her hair, a bit of fabric from
her clothes. Of course it could be my mind playing tricks on me,
but I like to think it’s her. I play for her, you know.”
The song she played was more melancholy. He remembered
binding hands with his bride and promising to be by her side forever.
“Is this what forever means?” he wondered aloud.
“Do you know what else I can do?”
She stood on the wall, her back against the blazing sunset as
it turned the clouds orange. She was a thing of glory, then. The
Bone-Shaker’s Daughter. Creator of magic and unifier of souls.
Breilig had never seen anything so wondrous, or so terrifying. Her
hair turned orange in the fading light. She was aflame.
“What else can you do?” He was almost afraid to ask.
She bared her teeth in what might have passed for a smile, but
Breilig realized with a coldness that reached into his belly that she
wasn’t really there at all. Her eyes took in nothing and everything.
Instead of moonbeams, they held shattered pottery and slinking
things with sharp teeth. They held the madness he had always feared
in himself. Was he mad and she now reflected it back, or was she
mad and he drew it into himself ?
“How would you like not to be alone, anymore? To be a family
again. With me, with your wife, your son, or whoever you choose.
Your father, perhaps? The man down the alley who sells trinkets
and false gems? Or your mother, long dead. How would that be?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I can make them come.”
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She put the flute to her lips, a long, straight flute, something so
very precious and dear about it, and she played. Her fingers moved
quickly, stirring the blood in his body until it moved faster, cleaner.
He wanted to get up. He wanted to snap a bone in half with his
jaws, wanted to leap off the wall into the melee below, wanted to
succumb to love and lust and murder all in one moment.
The Dead below howled and surged, a frenzy of motion.
Lightning cracked down among them, zipping from body to body.
Some cried out with voices that sounded strangely human. Others
had scales as though they were fish.
“They’re attracted to the music,” Breilig realized. He leaned
over and saw the masses were starting to hurl themselves more
forcefully against the wall.
“No!” he shouted. “You mustn’t stir them up!”
The sun came out of the clouds and silhouetted Tema so sharply
that Breilig threw his hand up to shield his face.
“They come. They climb. I call, and they listen,” Tema said between
notes. Riled undead began to scale the walls, piling over top each other
in order to ascend. Unholy screams and hisses rose from the city around
them as corpses reanimated. He heard men calling each other to arms,
screaming for their weapons and begging the Corpsemen to aid them.
“The dead call to the dead,” Tema said, and laughed. She
laughed and wiped away tears, and Breilig saw madness as he had
always feared it.
“It isn’t time for us to all be dead,” he said. “Please, stop this.
We can still fight.”
“There’s nothing left to fight for,” she screamed, and she let
the flute fall limply at her side. “Nothing, Breilig. You were what
I lived for. You were my sunlight.”
“I can still be your sunlight, if that’s what you want,” he pleaded.
“Stay with me. Help me raise my son. I know you feel despair now,
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99
DOWN HERE
WITH US
KEALAN PATRICK BURKE
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DOWN HERE WITH US
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KEALAN PAT R I C K BURKE
of time before the Dead get their hands on him. Never aloud would
I admit it, but nobody would grieve if they did. And based on how
he treats him, I suspect Uril feels the same. The blood that runs
sluggishly through our veins has seldom felt so cold.
“You were warned not to go out there.”
“Nderin knows a path. In the dark the Dead couldn’t see us.
And there are not nearly as many as before. You’ve heard the talk.
There’s rumors they might be going away.”
“Talk is all that is and you’re a fool to listen to it. Last time
our people made benevolent assumptions, we ended up as slaves.
Guessing at the patterns of the Restless is a good way to get yourself
killed, or worse.”
“The path is safe.”
“Safe is not a word anyone gets to use anymore, Admir.”
He wasn’t listening, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “We
only saw a few dozen of them, and the garden, it’s hidden among
the dead trees.”
“What kind of garden?”
“You’ll have to come see.”
“You’re a bigger imbecile than I thought if you think I’m going
to go wandering out there in the dark to see some flowers.”
“They’re not flowers, though. That’s the thing.”
I lie down and roll away from him, close my eyes though I
know he has ruined the notion of rest for me for another night.
“Get some sleep. You have horseshit to shovel in the morning.”
He sighs his frustration, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Please.”
“I’ll break your nose for you if you don’t go to bed, Admir.”
A grunt and he moves away, retreating to his cot, where, like
the child I know him to be, he pouts and huffs until mercifully his
dreams take him back to battlefields he can hardly recall.
In that, we are birds of a feather.
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All the animals are gone, either run to safer territory or wiped
out entirely, for when the Dead could not get at us, they took what
they could. We have even seen them eating clay, and each other.
We walk for an hour before stopping to rest, midway between
home and the sprawling woods in which I spent the greater part
of my childhood. Back when fighting the horde seemed like a
sound strategy, we lit those woods aflame, watched it burn, the
conflagration like the whole world burning as the Restless, who
had been using it as a corridor, were cooked. Most considered
it a victory, but for months I felt a hard knot of sadness in my
throat at the thought of what we had done, of the beauty we
had destroyed. Long before I learned to hunt, the woods had
been my haven, a magical hiding place, a kingdom unto itself.
There I learned to use my imagination to conjure up impossible
monsters; I conquered them all like the mighty warrior I promised
myself I would someday become. And I did, only to find myself
shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers as we razed that Place
of Dreams. Slavery, sickness, grief… nothing has since eclipsed
that loss for me. All of us have the day we knew our world was
dead. That was mine.
Ever since, I have become a ghost in a land of ash.
As I sit upon a rock gnawing on a piece of stale bread and
looking up at the jaundiced clouds, Uril taps a knuckle against my
shoulder. I look up at him, a stone-faced monolith in armor, and
he nods at something behind me, in the direction of the woods.
The bread is like a stone that lodges in my throat as I rise.
Through the phalanx of blackened stems that is all that remains
of the woods, one of the Restless comes, cerulean eyes like dull
stars trapped in the black hole of its skull. It is horribly emaciated,
practically indistinguishable from the spindly arachnidan trunks
of the trees through which it moves with incongruous grace. And
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the black hate that exists in my skull has made oil of my eyes. I
have seen them reflected in glass and it frightens even me.
“Yes?”
“You were a fool to come,” I tell him, and then glance at Tarek.
“Both of you. And you are not our charges. If you should fall behind
or fall prey to another, we will leave you, so you have a choice: stay
close or head home. Do you have weapons?”
Veli produces a sharpened stick.
Tarek brandishes a long thin needle, no doubt stolen from his
mother’s knitting basket.
I can see by their faces that until this moment, they believed
themselves aptly armed, which they are if they also continue in the
belief that the Dead have receded, a belief in my soul I know is
wrong. The stench of them fills my nose, carried to me on a breeze
that has come from darker places.
The boys can see by my face that they have made a mistake.
Tarek stares at his feet.
Veli clears his throat. “We will stay close, Olta. We will watch
your back.”
For this, he earns more respect from me than I let show. Weaker
men would have run. I turn and join Uril, who has just entered the
woods like a knife through the ribcage of some enormous beast.
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silently, the color drained from them by my words and the mist
both. Their faces have hardened now, annoyed perhaps that they
allowed themselves to forget their nobility, their pride, the instinct
that should govern everything in order to keep them alive. But they
are young and part of a new generation that no amount of teaching
can make whole. Those days are gone. Assuming they live to grow
older, they will be pretenders, shadows of what our race once was
and can never be again.
A sudden burst of noise and my head snaps back around, my body
tensing into a defensive posture, blade extended, breath held. I look
up. The sickly clouds are momentarily eclipsed by a multitude of crows
as they screech ahead of us, bound for whatever lies beyond. Their
numbers seem endless, the cacophony the only sound in the world.
What do you know? I ask them. What do you see? Would that we
could harness their flight, their sight, their wisdom, then perhaps
we might stand a chance in the war to come. As it stands, we are
merely waiting for the inevitable end.
It takes minutes, hours, weeks, for the last stragglers to pass
over our stilled quartet. The noise recedes. Even still, I listen, for
the crows are omens and it will do us well to measure the distance
it takes them to reach where they’re going, to reach the instruments
of our doom. That there is something out there is not in question,
only where it is and how long it will take to reach us, to reach lost
Elldimek.
I straighten, look back at the boys and note that the mist has
thickened into a fog around us. “Come.”
They narrow the gap between us in an instant and look up at
me breathlessly, awaiting my command. In Tarek’s eyes I see the
slightest spark of defiance and bitterness. It is a quality I admire. If
he can learn to harness it, make a fire from all those unruly sparks,
there might be hope for him, yet.
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“Stay close, but keep an eye to our backs. I’d rather not have
any surprises.”
As one the boys nod, Veli’s gaze lingering a moment longer
than necessary before he moves away, as if he was trying to read
something in my face. He won’t, of course. The people who might
have been able to divine meaning from my eyes are long since
buried. At the thought, I touch the spot on my breastplate where
my wife’s silver ring used to hang from a cord around my neck. It
is, like so many things, gone now, adorning the finger of another
who knows nothing of our love or the anguish which stains that
ring. I traded it to avoid starving, to keep death away a moment
longer, as I couldn’t keep it from her. Maybe if the balance turns
again, I’ll have an opportunity to find it.
Such notions exist as fragile comforts in the moments before
sleep.
For the first time since embarking on this fool’s errand, I
think of my brother. I have avoided it until now because with
the summoning of his face comes awareness of his death. He is a
warrior, yes, but a poor one, and I can only imagine, based on the
excitement that limned his tongue last night, that battle was the
furthest thing from his mind. There is a chance, of course, that he
ventured out here and encountered nothing, but there’s not a part
of me that believes it. Out here is a hell in waiting.
I expect to find him dead, torn to pieces, or to not find him
at all. There was a time when the absence of a body to bury would
have haunted me. Not so anymore. And should I find him dead,
will I mourn his loss? Some part of me will, yes, as any man would
lament the taking of kin, but things have changed too much for me
to care as I should. He is little more than another body now, and
one that has become a burden. The cruelest part of me anticipates
the relief I will feel when I confirm he’s gone, for so often it is
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for all the world like an effigy made animate, a crude idol of rope
and bone. A gathering of sticks. And as it ducks low and pulls itself
through the narrow gap between the boles of dead trees, it appears
as if the wood itself has given birth to it. The fog whirls away at its
approach, allowing me the full view of the horror it represents here
in this dreadful place. Nothing about it suggests anything human,
but there are features twisted and buried beneath its bark-like skin,
a mottled face, as if a man died and was subsumed by a withering
tree, granting it some form of perverse life, threading its veins with
sap. Its chest heaves as it draws itself back up to full height and now
that it has shredded the fog that obscured it from view, I can see
that in its right hand hangs the limp body of Veli’s friend, Tarek.
The head and one arm are missing, the stumps squirting blood
down onto the blackened earth, slaking its thirst. The creature’s
jaw moves languidly as it chews on the boy’s remains.
Perhaps to compensate for his embarrassment, to prove his
worth and impress, Tarek decided to seek out the source of a noise,
and in so doing, sealed his fate.
I look down at my hand, at the blade. It may as well be a feather
for all the good it will do. I dare cast another glance at Urik. He is
frozen by fear, as he should be. Bravery has found an inhospitable
home here. If we fight, we will die. If we run, it will follow, but of
these two choices, only the latter makes sense. It is not my time.
Not yet. I will know it when it comes, but it does not come today,
not at the hands of this godless devil of sticks and bone and rope
and blue fire in place of eyes.
“Urik,” I hiss, and hear a creaking sound as the creature ceases its
masticating and turns in my direction. I watch it cock its triangular
head toward my voice. Blind. Despite the twin blue orbs of fire,
the thing has no eyes. Urik brings his wide gaze to bear on me.
I tilt my head toward the trees at our back. “We run.” He
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nods once and some of the life, if not the color, returns to his face.
Sometimes the mere thought of action can draw a man out of
himself and away from certain death.
“The boy,” he whispers. “Don’t let the Witherer take him.”
He has just christened this creature. Henceforth, this is how it
shall be known. Not some nameless thing, as it deserves to remain,
but the Witherer, a name that will instill fear in all who hear it, for it,
like so many of this creature’s ilk, portends a quick yet painful end,
an abomination that has no right to be here and now has dominion.
Its presence confirms that we do not know what roams the territory
beyond our walls, that we have been arrogant in thinking our enemy
familiar. The terrible truth is that we know less than we did before.
The world has gone mad.
In two quick steps I have the boy by the scruff of the neck.
“No!” he screams, mistaking me in his fright for another devil
of the woods.
And that is all it takes for the Witherer to find us.
The sound of it lunging toward us is the sound of all the kindling
in the woods breaking at once, and I do not wait to feel the twigs
of its fingers on my body. I am gone, running, dragging the young
one flailing along with me through the fog. I have no idea where
I am going, only that behind us is death so I have to keep pushing
ahead. More than once my progress is halted by trees, the pain of the
collision setting stars alight in my eyes, in my bones, but I persevere,
Urik a bulky shadow to my left, keeping the pace. The brush crashes
down behind us, trunks are pulverized, groan and fall. The Witherer
comes, stalking us through the same woods where I became a warrior
before burning them down just as this creature would burn me down,
and perhaps I deserve it after all. Perhaps this thing is not Restless.
Perhaps it has been resting all along and the woods have resurrected
it to make me pay for my desecration of this sacred place.
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The arm reaching from the dirt before me has an inked symbol
of a wolf on its blanched white wrist, courtesy of the street people
who offer such things in trade. Such practices are common, but the
street people pride themselves on never repeating a design.
And this one belongs to Nderin, Urik’s son.
At the look in my eyes, he nods his acceptance of the news
and trudges through the dirt to where I stand. I put a hand on his
shoulder and leave him to his mourning, though I suspect it will
be quiet and not long. Urik has never had much love for his son. If
anything, he has seen him as a disappointment, which I have often
suspected is simply us looking at our kin as mirrors, but like me,
loyalty has brought us here to retrieve them, alive or dead.
I search the remaining graves, if such a name can be employed
for this wickedness, and although my brother is not marked, I will
recognize his stubby fingers.
But he is not here.
Urik jolts and takes a step back just as I am sitting down to
smoke upon a moss-shrouded rock. Pipe to my mouth, match held
aloft, I look and forget the fire until it burns my fingers.
The hand next to Ndemir’s has moved. Then his son’s hand moves.
Then they all do.
“Olta…” Urik shakes his head. “Could they be…?”
I shake my head. We have been here too long, and while my
kind are known to be able to survive longer in situations in which
others would suffocate, even we dwarves couldn’t manage such a
prolonged internment. Before the Witherer, we might have fooled
ourselves into hoping that there’s still a chance for Ndemir. Now it
can only be more witchery, another display of the wicked magic that
permeates this place. And we should not be here. Every moment
brings us closer to our own destruction, a reality that is hardly
limited by this place, but seems represented by it.
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SOME UNKNOWN TIME later, the walls of Elldimek hove into view,
misted by distance. From here I can see the black specks of the
crows. They are not circling, but roosting on the walls. Watchers.
My feet ache, and my heart aches, too. I want to rest, but so
close to home and unsure of what further surprises the Outside
might have in store for us, I walk on. Urik trails behind. His is not
a mask of sorrow, but anger, for though he might have little feeling
left for Ndemir in his deadened soul, still he feels the theft of one
of our own at the hands of these ungodly creatures. With it comes
the awareness that this will never end, that we are the hunted now
and one day the sun will rise on a world that is empty of natural
life. Our kingdom, already stolen once, will be owned for good by
demons, and we will be no more.
And perhaps that is how it should be, for what use are we to
this world as slaves? Even those who would own us are themselves
owned by the monsters that exist beyond the walls.
“Olta,” Urik says, breathless. “Stop.”
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“I don’t—”
“Is that because you put them there? Was it you who buried
all those people in the woods? Is it some kind of ritualistic burial
ground? Help me to understand. Did you bring me there to kill
me? Did you kill Admir, too? Where is he?”
He shakes his head again and now there is pain on his face.
“It’s not like that.”
I step closer to him and his knife hand twitches. The crows
rejoice. “Then what is it like? Why didn’t you kill me in the woods?”
“Olta.”
I wait, but there are no more words coming. Perhaps that is
why he doesn’t speak, because it is impossible for most people to
speak without deception. A mute man can never be called a liar.
But it also deprives us of the truth if there is a truth to be had.
“Were you planning to cut my throat before we were in full
view of the gate? Or did you just intend to cripple me so that the
Restless would take me and you would appear innocent of your
crimes? Tell me, Urik, why have you turned on us, on your brothers?
What have we done to you?”
His brow furrows. “Olta, I didn’t—”
A shuffling sound behind him and he turns, knife raised. I close
the distance between us and slip my own blade into his throat and
twist, tug it upward and withdraw. Then I step away as Urik’s head
comes back around, his eyes like boiled eggs. He reaches for me,
his hand clutching like that of his own murdered son in the garden.
He chokes, sputters blood, winces, and then drops to his knees.
I watch him wheezing at my feet, blood spurting from the gash
in his neck, and then I raise my eyes to the figure standing still and
watching a few feet away from where he stood.
In truth, I do not know whether or not Urik betrayed me. It is
possible, as all things are these days. The Nightcoats are gaining in
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DRESSMAKER
ELIZABETH MASSIE
T HIS DOES NOT feel safe. I should not have come here.
Drita stood on the threshold and stared into the room. It
was much bigger than any she’d ever seen, more a grand hall than
a bedchamber. There were flower-themed tapestries on the walls,
and massive portraits featuring stone-faced humans holding their
equally stone-faced pets — cats, dogs, birds, reptiles. At the far end
of the room was a fireplace in which red flames leapt and crackled.
Chairs bore thick cushions and the bed, which held the center of
the room, was made of dark wood carved with dragons. A single,
small window was set in a wall near the ceiling. The room was heavy
with sharp perfumes that made Drita’s eyes water.
I should never have trusted a human.
Auris spun about on her toes to face Drita. She smiled, teeth
flashing white. “Do you like this? Do you like my room? How much
nicer than any place you have lived, I’m sure!”
ELIZABETH MASSIE
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them feel proud and noble, as they should. It is not much, but it is what
I can do for my kind.
“Then where are these dresses, dwarf ?”
“Others have them.”
“Hmm.” Auris walked around Drita as if the dwarf was still a
slave on the block. “The one you are wearing now, that pretty one.
You wear it to attract customers, yes? You hike it up, wink, and
wait, don’t you?”
Drita’s jaw tightened. “I…”
“Of course you do!” Auris clapped her hands, a spoiled child
delighted with herself. “In fact, there was a human with his fingers
down your bodice when I first saw you in the alley this morning,
yes? Ready to do what it is men like to do with your body?”
He paid me enough for a week’s bread. I do it for my father.
“Does it feel good?”
There was no good answer.
“Answer me!”
“You asked me to come to your home,” said Drita, lifting her
chin slowly. “You said you would pay me to make you a dress. I
told you it would take seven days. I said when I was done, I would
leave. You never said I was to answer your questions, and I am not
here to answer them. Let us be clear on that.”
The human’s lip curled and her ice cold eyes flashed. “We’re clear
on nothing but what I want. I want you to stay and make dresses
for me. Not one dress, but rather dresses. As many as I want. Like
the one you have. Better than that, even.”
“I agreed to stay until one dress was done and then I would
return home.”
“And you believed me?” Auris laughed at the ceiling, her braids
swinging. “Ignorant dwarf! You’re all the same. Gullible, stupid, worth
only what you can produce for us, best suited as servants or slaves.”
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ELIZABETH MASSIE
DRITA SAT AT the table on a stool that required three thick pillows
to lift her up high enough. Her satchel was open and her sewing
tools were laid out and ready. And folded on the table were large
scraps of fabrics of various colors and textures, from the finest and
softest to the coarsest, scratchiest.
“Cloth is rare, as you well know, dwarf,” Auris confided, standing
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I must make this dress and plan an escape, she thought as she laid
out the fabrics. I cannot live here, for it will surely kill me!
She cut and pinned the pieces together, then began the
painstaking job of stitching the bits together. Auris watched for a
while, mildly curious, and then went to her bed to brush her hair
and play off-key music on a small flute. When the light faded from
the single window high in the wall, Auris ordered Drita to climb
into the chest for the night.
Drita shook her head. “There is no need for that. I can sleep
on these pillows on the floor.”
Auris snatched up her lash and waved it back and forth. “Oh,
but there is. I don’t trust you, dwarf. Should you be free when I
sleep, who knows what foul tricks you might come up with?”
“I would not try such a thing. I know my place now.”
“I can’t trust you.”
“You can.”
“In the chest, dwarf !”
No! I cannot!
Auris flicked her wrist and the lash caught Drita’s neck,
wrapping itself tightly and cutting into the skin. Drita clawed at
the leather. “That’s a small taste, dwarf. A reminder of who I am
and who you are. In the chest, now, or it will be a whipping you’ll
never forget!”
Drita climbed into the chest, folding herself up and tucking
her head. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as the lid was
shut and latched. How long would it be before she was let out?
Just a few hours? Or perhaps several days this time? What if Auris’
attention turned from wanting a dress to wanting something else,
and she forgot Drita all together?
There were sounds outside the chest, footsteps, humming,
laughing. A door opening and closing.
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BY THE FOURTH day of her captivity, Drita had sewn the human’s
dress and completed all adjustments. Auris stood before her mirror
and admired herself, spinning this way and that, tipping her head,
undoing her braids and shaking her head so her hair swirled about
her shoulders.
“I like the way you put the colors together, dwarf,” she said
without looking away from herself.
Drita sat on the pillows at the table and said nothing.
“Did you hear me? I gave you a compliment.”
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“Thank you.”
“Now it’s time for you to decorate the dress.” Auris strolled to
her bed, on which lay a cloth sack. “While you’ve been in the chest,
I’ve gone out secretly and found some things.” She up-ended the
sack and out tumbled a gritty collection — twigs, tiny shiny shells,
dried reeds and grasses, and several mismatched buttons. “Nice, yes?”
Drita nodded.
Auris frowned and snapped her fingers. “Come get them, then.
I’m not about to do your work for you, dwarf.”
Drita carried tidbits to the table as Auris changed from the new
dress to her old gown. Then she stood close and watched as Drita
stitched the first design with the buttons and twigs. Auris slapped
Drita’s hand and caused Drita to stick herself with the needle.
“No, no,” said Auris. “That flower design is too small. Try again.”
It took several attempts before Auris was satisfied.
Though not completely.
“Something’s missing,” the human said. “It’s not as pretty as
it should be.”
“You brought no bird or mouse bones. Bones glisten when
polished, and they catch the light nicely.”
Auris wrinkled her nose. “Birds. Mice. I can’t stand the thought
of such vermin. My mother was bitten by a mouse once and her
finger swelled. And Father taught me that birds bring plague.”
“Any small bones, then. Search in rubbish hills.”
“I’d never touch a rubbish hill.”
“Then nothing shall glisten on your new dress.”
Auris slapped Drita, knocking her off the pillows to the floor.
“Get up! And get into your chest.”
“It is just early afternoon. It is not yet evening.”
“I don’t care what time it is. Get in there!” She kicked Drita
in the stomach, then dragged her to the chest by her hair. Drita
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struggled but the blow left her weak. Auris threw her inside and
slammed the lid shut before she could take a deep breath. Drita lay
in the dark, folded up, her stomach heaving, her heart thundering,
weeping with rage and helplessness.
Great grandmother Mariad! See me! Hear me! Help me!
But the woman did not see, did not hear, did not help. For she
was long dead.
BY THE TIME the chest was opened again, Drita’s lungs were spent.
She sat up, gulping in the fresh air and blinking in the red light from
the fireplace. It was still night, and shadows were wide and deep.
“Get out, dwarf !” laughed Auris. “I’ve found the little bones
we need for my dress!”
Drita pushed herself to her feet wavering, panting. She rubbed
her eyes to clear them.
Kneeling on the floor was a young dwarf. His hands were lashed
behind his back. His dark eyes were huge with fear. Auris stood
behind him, smiling, holding a large knife.
“What…,” managed Drita. “What are you doing?”
“Whatever I please. This is my home. My room. My dress. And
my dwarves.” Auris placed the blade to the young dwarf ’s throat.
“This one is particularly small. His bones shall be just right.”
“Please, no!” said Drita. She stumbled from the chest. “There
are plenty of bones scattered about. Take me into your kitchen. I
would think there are bones left over from your meals. I can clean
them, shorten them, hollow and buff them until they shine. Any
other kind of bone, I can make work!”
“Let you into our kitchen? My mother would spy you, or our cooks,
who would tell on you and then discover what I’ve been up to. But
not to worry, silly. I want you to kill him. I don’t take on messy tasks.”
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THE YOUNG DWARF’S toe bones were charred black, but Auris
thought the dark tint had a certain charm. She said that should
Drita refuse to polish and add the bones to the dress, she
would beat her and lock her in the chest for as long as she felt
compelled.
Drita wept silently as she hollowed the bones and stitched
them into a cheerful pattern on the bodice.
AURIS LOVED HER new dress. She first wore it in her bedchamber
alone, prancing back and forth before the mirror as the reeds, twigs,
and toe bones clattered. Then she decided to show her family, and
tell them a story about learning to sew herself.
“They will believe me,” she said with a laugh before she left the
room. “If they come to see how I’ve done it, you will hide and I will
show them your sewing tools. I will admit to borrowing fabrics, but
I think they will be so pleased at my new skill they will overlook
that minor issue.”
Drita nodded. Your new skill? Oh, if I had but a taste of Mariad’s
old skills.
Auris’ mother and father were indeed pleased, and did come
into her room to see her new tools as Drita hid beneath the bed.
When they were gone, Auris ordered Drita out and said, “Now
that I am known as a dressmaker, I shall need more. I will have
one dress a week. I will provide what you need, and you will make
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them. Each must be more beautiful than the one before it.”
Then she ordered Drita into the chest, and Drita heard the
door open and shut.
Alone in the dark, keeping as calm as she could with no certainty
how long she would be locked away, Drita thought of her great
grandmother. She thought of how her father had told her that from
stories told and sketches made, he could see that Drita had inherited
Mariad’s curly hair, the wide forehead, the index fingers that were a
bit longer than the middle finger. “Mariad was quiet yet strong,” her
father had told her. “You are quiet and I know you are strong. Her
blood is in your veins, and for that you should carry yourself with pride.”
Great grandmother, if only you were here. You could save me from this
torment! I am not strong! I am lost! I am damned! There is no hope for me!
She slept fitfully until the chest was opened once more.
When she stepped out of the box and into the late night
candlelight, she saw two young dwarves in the room, on their
knees, with their hands bound at their backs. One female. One
male. Auris stood over them, grinning and holding her knife.
Not again oh no no no NO!
“I smuggled them in this evening. Put them in hoods and no
one in the house was the wiser, thinking them to be some of our
own servants. Aren’t they charming?”
“Why did you bring them here? We don’t need them.”
“Of course we do, silly. We need bones for my new dresses!”
“We still have bones,” said Drita carefully. “Just look in the kit.
There are rib bones, finger bones, bones from the spine…”
“I don’t like those bones. They are clumsy. I like toe bones, and
we have no more of those.”
The two young dwarves began to cry, and they looked to Drita
as if she could save them.
“Toe bones… they are too difficult to work with. Please, let
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ELIZABETH MASSIE
these two go, and I will make you a fine dress with the finger bones.”
Auris spit. “No! I want what I want! Now, will you kill them
as dwarves kill their animals? Or must I do it again?”
Drita’s thoughts flashed on the young dwarf, his slashed neck,
his wounded stomach, his butchered arm and foot. His dreadful,
agonized death.
She nodded and took the knife from Auris, who stood back,
picked the lash up from the bedside table, and smiled. “Do it, then.
Quickly. And you can start the new dress tonight!”
The trembling dwarves looked up at Drita.
“Do it!”
Drita wondered how sharp the knife was, and how quickly she
could free herself from this prison with one deep, quick slice of the
blade. She put her finger to the tip, felt the cold, bright, pricking
of her skin.
Yet if I kill myself, Auris will rid herself of these precious little ones
in whatever way entertains her and assuages her rage at me.
“I said do it!”
Mariad’s blood is in me. In some way I will find her magic in my
blood, too. And then I will escape this place and seek revenge on Auris and
those who treat my kind as trinkets, as garbage. I will become a fighter.
I will become a leader.
Auris snapped the lash and it cut open the side of Drita’s face.
The pain was excruciating, the blood hot. “DO IT!”
As Auris stood watching with the lash swinging back and forth
from her hands, as the fire in the fireplace popped and hissed across
the room, Drita knew she had but two choices: to kill the dwarves
kindly, herself, or to let the butcher do the deed. Tears burned and
welled up in her eyes, but she did not let them fall.
“Look there,” said Drita to the dwarves on the floor. “Look to
the fireplace… see how the flames are dancing.”
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HE IN
MEMORY
MALCOLM SHEPPARD
“Kowath.”
“Your tone is off. That’s the word for coward. A related word.
You must forget the city accent. Your own name means ‘fiery
queen,’ niece, but if you lose the pronunciation it could acquire
all sorts of stupid connotations. Our language is subtle. We are
precise.”
“I’ve seen the Foresters walk out in formation against the Dead.
That’s when they fight shield to shield.” I tapped my forearms
together to suggest the technique of overlapping steel-shod wood
and pressing muscle. “They’re not cowards, uncle.”
He let his sleaghar’s point drop a bit more. He could thrust up
at me, perhaps. He was a man carved from knotted oak, immovable
but made of the slow stone-shattering motion of old growth. But
he could move fast. I’d seen it.
“You know, some of us use it now. Surinzan train with the
Watch or at the Red Door School.” (More popular fighting schools
than ours, I thought.) “We’re the only ones who don’t.”
“Why?” Now his weapon pointed straight at my neck.
I was never one for the twilight face. The words hissed out.
“It’s one of Redoubt’s weapons. We live here now. Without it? No
students. The Coilhand School closes. Twenty-three generations
of the art end.”
“Twenty-four, maybe. Depends on how much you’ve learned.
Show me this way of the shield. If it impresses me, I’ll let it into
Coilhand. You can teach it to warriors after I’ve been burned or
fed to the jackal-folk.”
“You know I can’t beat you.”
He opened his hand; his sleaghar clattered on the stones. “How
about now? You’ve got two weapons to my none. Try to hit full
force, but keep the sheath on your spearhead. I know you’d be afraid
of hurting me otherwise.”
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HE IN MEMORY
“I might still hurt you.” I dropped to war stance, knees bent deep.
“Come.”
My sleaghar slid in my right hand out of nervousness, but I still
flipped it off my shoulder fast and caught it firmly. Never drop your
spear. It was the first lesson, the law of all fighting schools. Drop
the sleaghar and leave in shame, until you make an offering to your
teacher and the spear’s god.
Yet my uncle’s weapon lay on the paving stones between us.
Disrespect.
I thrust for the midsection. He tapped it aside with an open
hand and ground his forearm on my sleaghar’s haft to guide it down.
I knew the trick; it would rise up again behind a fist aimed at my
throat or face, but my shield was ready, pushing out. At Red Door
they’d taught me that in single combat, you angle shield and spear
together into a wedge.
But he stepped close enough to pin my weapon with his body.
He swung with the other hand: a short hook. It hit my shield dead
center instead of sliding away. The metal boss groaned and crumpled,
and my shield splintered. It cut my arm, but that was a little thing.
I tightened my grip for a close range strike, but he slipped to my
shield’s side, shoved his arm under its wreckage and lifted, sharply.
Its top edge struck me between nose and lip. Red pain and worse,
my hand lightened, because I’d dropped my sleaghar.
I sunk, sightless with agony. I spat blood and snot out of my
mouth. He’d broken my nose.
I heard him: “I didn’t drop my spear. I am the spear. I do not
carry a shield against my weakness. I am the shield of the People.”
He treated my face. “Your nose was too sharp before, your
skin too smooth,” he said, and led me to his hammock to rest, not
the dwarven slab beds students usually use. He gave me ground
shadowseed for tea. It came from a Meliae plant, holy and rare.
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HE IN MEMORY
Her sleaghar rested across my back. I’d inherited it. I swung the
baldric around and drew it. “Now you see it again, returned. Even
in a dream, I will not be accused of her crimes.”
“Not a dream,” he said. He pulled the curtain aside. They stood
as high as a water tower in deep Redoubt, and among a cluster
of other, slender towers: wood embracing white stone, just as the
Meliae built.
“It is. I’m dreaming of Spyre, the Meliae capital.”
“No. This is a Skrye, a lesser fortress. Spyre is over there, to the
right of the sun. Look.”
I put my hand over the sun, and blotting out its glare, saw it:
hybrids of tower and tree surrounding a greater, pointed tower the
size of a mountain, just as my uncle described it.
“It’s a tomb.” Sussura took hold of my shoulders, so I faced him;
he wept. “It contains nothing but mad echoes and the Dead. But
Skrye is unspoiled. I’m all that survives, but my soul knows yours,
Morrika, through the vows made by your blood. By your love.”
He pulled me closer — no, I tightened my hold, only then
aware of my hands around his waist. “I trained to protect you, even
though we thought there were none of you left. I’ll come to you.”
“Then I will show you the lights of Redoubt and the river
between us, and you’ll know the way.”
“YOU WERE DRUGGED out of your mind.” Mother folded her hands in
her lap and shot an angry look at me. Kuellan nodded in agreement.
It was a clan feast. Talking out of turn was rude but I tossed the
bones from my meal into the fire in an act of deliberate, angry waste.
They were pigeon scraps: expensive, and good for stock.
We were the ChaKavan Clan, twenty squeezed into an old
dwarf apartment. Our tapestry hung from an old-form spear across
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HE IN MEMORY
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MALCOLM S H E P PA R D
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HE IN MEMORY
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MALCOLM S H E P PA R D
I CUT SLIVERS of warbark into one of Vakim’s cups and took his
kettle from the fire. He kicked his blanket down and propped
himself up on an elbow to watch. “I thought you hired a spell for
your womb,” he said.
“I don’t rely on it. You have to choose between the academics
who spend half the time complaining that their Art is failing them,
and street witches who are either cheating you or might butcher
one of the old chants and poison you. I control this, so I trust it.”
“Let me see.” He dragged himself over and I handed him the
little ragged square of warbark. He regarded it in firelight. “I think
I recognize it. It’s a thorny plant, short but thick in the trunk.
Grows in the Plague Fools’ Wood. We should be able to get you
more when we travel.”
I grabbed his shoulder to catch his gaze. “Vakim. No sex on
the road.” I pinched, hoping it added the proper mix of affection
and seriousness.
“Ow. It happens. That’s all I mean. This looks like it was cut
up by some herbalist eager to gouge discriminating women like
yourself. We can swing around on the way back at least, and save
you any added cost.” He tossed the blanket around me like a big
wing, but I shrugged it off.
“No, we’ll get it on the way if we can.” I took a sip of the tea.
“Warbark thins menstruation, keeps you awake, and widens your
pupils so you can see better at night. My uncle taught me about it.
It’s part of the Surinzan Way.”
“Morr, after ten moons with you I can’t think of anything you
do that isn’t part of it.” Vakim chuckled. “Well, except me, but even
then, I don’t think you’d even be with me if I wasn’t a Forester.
Correct?”
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HE IN MEMORY
the Foresters soon after. She was good enough with a shield to
impress me, which is why I tried to convince my uncle of its merits.
“I passed the full Foresters’ trials on the last new moon, Morr,”
she said. “Your timing’s excellent. I don’t know how much cousin
told you about our upbringing in the faith, but I was taught where
the old shrines and pilgrims’ paths are, on the assumption that
when the Dead go away I’ll lead my people back to the Lands
of the Righteous.” She smiled. “I believe the elders were a little
premature with their plans. In any event, I know how to keep us
from getting too lost, considering our map is, if I’m not mistaken,
a drug-inspired vision.”
For the last, Vakim tossed a teacup at the dwarf running the
tea stand. He batted it down, where it broke. “Rashuk,” said Vakim.
“He’s a very useful man, especially since I beat his master at dice
and won his indenture contract. I freed him, naturally. But he still
has to make us tea.” Rashuk said nothing.
We spent a long time in the square after, saying little as Vakim
shuttled between Eastgate’s towers, bargaining for passage. After the
sun crowned the giant’s head he jogged out if its shadow, grinning.
“This way,” he said, and gestured into the deepest black, where the
great doors were. We passed through them, then two more, after
which I heard an animal whine. Vakim whistled and snapped his
fingers. Two horses trotted forth; one black, one chestnut.
I’d only seen horses twice before. In the Inner City, on the day
I performed for the Running King, and when I started training
with the Foresters. The elite outriders used them for long patrols,
though I had never seen them ridden. They were rare creatures.
You had to be rich or demonstrate extreme necessity to use them.
“You never played dominoes or fate disks,” said Vakim. “Foresters
pride themselves on gambling skill. Want to make captain? You
need to beat one at a game.”
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“Trouble with that is they assume the low ranks are easy prey,”
said Lalia. “They certainly don’t believe some fallen temple maiden
and her unfaithful betrothed could beat them. Vak and I worked
as a team. We were going to buy officer’s commissions, but we
canceled some debts — some big debts — to get these. We know
how to ride and care for them.”
I touched the black horse mane. She snorted, and I snatched
my hand away. “I don’t know what to say,” I said. “You set yourselves
back for me.”
“Morrika, without you I’d be married to Vak. He’s my best
friend, but they’d want him to make me a wife.” Lalia shuddered.
“He wouldn’t, of course, but we’d say the words and never be free.
“That’s worth every note to us… mostly to him.” She pointed
a shoulder at Vakim.
He frowned, looked away and took a slow breath. Then: “We’ve
got a fortnight from tomorrow. After that the gate masters list us
as deceased. Our homes and possessions pass through the kinship
systems of our respective nations, or go to the factors of Redoubt
for redistribution.”
“It’s not an issue for me,” I said. “I’m not leaving anything
important behind.”
“Our inhuman friends are similarly ascetic, though not by
choice, like you,” said Vakim. The dwarf and elf glanced at each
other with wary camaraderie. The shared poverty and resentment
of fallen peoples. “But I’d like to come back to my room. Good
memories. View of the rice terraces. The smell is tolerably fecal.”
We spent the rest of the day preparing, because it would be
better to leave at the next dawn. The Dead still moved by day, but
the Foresters said they were less and in any event, easier to see.
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HE IN MEMORY
“LESSER REVNANTS,” LALIA said, when the first of them tore free
from the banks of a stagnant stream. They were skeletons with
strips of dry gray muscle, packed with riverside clay and clothed
in dead grass. “Not fast or especially ardent. They’ll fall apart in a
matter of hours.”
And so they did, after we easily fled them. But over two more
days, more earth-clad Dead shook off their roots and mire to pursue
us. Eventually their femurs crumbled and pelvises cracked, and they
collapsed into twitching heaps. The black energy in them couldn’t
sustain them for the full chase. Sometimes we rode two to a horse
to outpace them, but never for long, lest the beasts tire. They were
more useful as pack animals, following as we walked.
We moved at night, using lanterns sparingly. Light attracted
the Dead. The Dammalori could see through starlight well as if
the sun was out, and he only spoke to guide us, whispering, “This
way. Stop. Silence now.”
By the third sunset the horses whined at our touch. They were
exhausted. The Dammalori said, “Silence now” again, and we saw
withered forms crawling in the moonlight. We pulled the horses into
the shadow of a fieldstone wall, where it met a thicket of trees, an
abandoned orchard. The house beyond tempted us, but Vakim said
the Dead might lie where their living selves once breathed. Anywhere
with a bed or hearth was dangerous now. We made a battle line in
front of the horses and wall, waiting for the enemy to come forth.
There might have been twenty or more: revnants of bone,
rotten flesh, and caked earth. Vakim and Lalia met them with
axes and spiked shields. Articulated steel protected their shoulders
and necks; they smirked at each other before shutting the visors
of their Forester sallet-helms. The dwarf Rashuk readied a spike-
backed warhammer with both hands. Despite his poverty he was
well armored in a solid breastplate, helm with a crow-faced visor,
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HE IN MEMORY
the first and she told us to sit, eat, and drink. But still I paced, sleaghar
shifting from hand to hand. “I still have the strength to continue,” I said.
“I’m not the only one.” I pointed my chin at the others, who fidgeted
while they sat on a circle of rocks. These must have been put here by
farmers long ago, to clear them from the valley beyond.
“You don’t,” she said. “You think you’re fresh because you’ve
got the fear of the Dead in you.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“The fear’s in the body, not the mind!” she hissed. “It doesn’t
matter that we cut them to pieces, or even that we could do it all
over again. It doesn’t matter how strong you feel. The body-fear’s
the same as when you snap your hand from an open flame. The body
moves; the mind makes excuses. You can suppress it, transform it
into battle rage or senses sharp enough to hear a leaf float in the
wind. You can laugh and fuck while it possesses you, but it’s there
all the same. It wants you to do anything but stop, even though
that’s precisely what you need to do. Otherwise, you’ll tire without
knowing it. A dirty veil will fall over your mind’s eye. You’ll forget
to eat. We could run for days, Morrika, until the horses fled or died,
and then we’d sleep with eyes open, dream we’re still strong, and
then the Dead would claim us. So sit.”
I did. There must have been a vineyard in the valley. Rows of
posts stood like rotten teeth, thrusting out of dense, gray brush.
“It’s a Forester teaching,” said Vakim. “Rest, or the fear will
wear you out. Did you know that you’re bleeding?”
I lifted my right arm. Three new stripes decorated the linen on
that side, and three ragged claw wounds matched it. I remembered
the revnant’s grasp sneaking under my pauldron, but it hadn’t seemed
important at the time. Vakim soaked a fresh rag in rice-draught
and wiped the wound clean. It stung, but I put on the twilight face.
It had its uses after all. And at that, everyone checked themselves
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HE IN MEMORY
I knew them from my dream, seeing them from the tower in Skrye.
“Vakim,” I said, “I know my path. It’ll be swift and straight,
except for the river crossing.”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “They called it the Shywere,” he
said. “There used to be good fishing there. Should be plenty of
boats or if they’ve fallen apart, wood for rafts.”
“Why are you leaving?”
“Ha! Because you don’t love me!” He laughed and put his foot
on a stirrup.
“You already knew that.”
“Because if I tried to force you to go back, you’d beat me to
death?”
“You knew that, too.”
He swung into the saddle. “All right. I thought that once
you’d seen the Dead in number, the silent houses and fallow fields,
you’d come back… to live. You don’t want to live. You want your
Way, which is death. You think virtue’s about having a purpose
beyond survival. The Dead? They don’t care about survival, don’t
need to. The Dead have a purpose: to press us into their ranks.
They’re the definition of Surinzan will, aren’t they? None are so
dedicated. So go to death, like them. I can’t stop you, but I don’t
have to watch.”
He dug his heels in and the horse trotted away, Lalia walking
beside. She glanced back many times as they went back down into
the fallen vineyard, but if she said anything to Vakim, I couldn’t
hear it. She’d never raise her voice where the Dead might hear.
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have a mast at this size. And a sail.” But I didn’t see it, and it didn’t
matter. We just had to cross.
I crouched and pushed, testing its weight. The boat creaked and
the hut, made of the same wood, answered. There were footsteps,
but no voices.
The boat’s Dead owners shuffled out to defend it. They’d been
woman and child walking hand in hand, but the flesh of their hands
had rotted and dried into one mass. The connected arms must have
broken in many places because they hung together in a loose loop
of dirty musculature. The child’s face had worn away around the jaw,
giving it the appearance of a three-legged dog with a white snout
of bone, straining its leash. The mother was slow as the child was
swift. One took elephantine steps on thick legs; the other ducked
and shuffled from attempts to impale it.
The Dammalori cagily snuck up from behind and stabbed the
mother with a thin dagger. It was useless, except to distract her.
As she lumbered around to grab the elf, Rashuk struck the rope
of arms with the spike of his warhammer. He pinned it to the
ground and tugged until it split in two. Black fluid spurted forth,
corrupting the earth.
The child dropped and trembled. I beheaded it. The mother grew
even slower, as if the black ichor was blood to her. I cut through
fat and viscera, to black worm intestines that uncoiled at my feet.
Finally, I felt my sleaghar hum at contact with her spine. I thrust
through. She fell.
Vakim had left a spare fighting ax and hatchet. We used them
to butcher the remains for scattering. Once it was done we flipped
the boat over, saw the center thwart with the expected socket for
the mast, and chopped it out to make room for the horse. We had
barely enough rope to tie the boat to the saddle, and the horse was
willing to drag it to the water’s edge.
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The dwarf and elf held the boat steady and I stepped in, tugging
on the horse’s reins. I might as well have been urging a tree or stone
to board. The mare didn’t protest, but gently pulled against me.
“Take my place,” said the Dammalori. I gave him the reins
and grabbed the stern. The boat bucked between my shoulder
and the current, a trapped wooden beast. The elf wound the reins
about his forearm and drew a polished blue stone from his dun
rags. He waved two fingers above it and pointed them skyward
before singing in soft, rapid syllables. The mare snorted and her
ears twitched. She trembled, but stepped softly aboard and sat
on folded legs.
We pushed the boat until the water carried it, then scrambled
aboard, unhooking the oars. Rashuk and I claimed one apiece and
pulled hard, managing a diagonal drift downstream. I glanced at
the shivering horse. The Dammalori patted its nose and whispered
to it some more.
The elf looked up. “A little spell like before,” he said. “She’s
terrified, but I keep that part of her spirit from communicating
with her body.”
The boat struck something and lurched. I didn’t see rocks in
the silt-choked water. It happened again. Wood groaned.
I wasn’t surprised by the first hand I saw, blue and bloated,
reaching out of the water. I traded the oar for my spear. The
river weakened its owner’s flesh. I cut it off mid-forearm when
it reached for the gunwale, and scarcely felt resistance from the
bones. Another one of the Dead reached from astern with both
hands, but when it pulled its head into view Rashuk smashed it
apart like rotten fruit.
The strikes against the hull increased to a drumming; oars
unattended, the boat spun in the slow current. At least it was still
heading to the far shore.
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WE BURNED THE tainted boat and ran, sparing no glance for the
Dead who’d run to its light and noise. We didn’t stop running until
we hit the secret road.
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dance and sing magic. We need only know the steps, gestures, and
notes. But for the Eldest, your liege-folk, magic is as breath. It’s a
terrible thing to be forced to abandon dance, but lethal to abandon
breath. When the Dead rose, magic became a hungry thing. Spells
devoured the sorcerers that cast them, or called the Fallen to climb
from their graves. Some of my people couldn’t stop dancing even
when magic turned. They stole children and drank blood. But the
Menhada did their duty! They killed the mad ones, though servants
carry long, silent grudges against their masters, and some of us died
not because magic corrupted us, but because a vassal wished to free
himself of an elf-oath.”
“If my visions are true, the Meliae lord of Skrye isn’t afflicted.
And with respect, I plan to be a better guardian than your Menhada.”
He brushed his tangled hair aside to give me a quick grin. On
his thin face, it was like a skull splitting in two. “No, they were wise.
The best servants teach their masters and if the lesson is, ‘You’ve
lost the right to live,’ so be it. Thus, I hope to give magic a new
birth, and be reborn myself, and let the elf I was die. What will
you teach this master, who lives in your dreams?”
I noticed the point of my sleaghar dropping, pointing at him. I
shouldered it again. “No lesson. I’m doing my duty.” Yet I thought
of nothing else as the sun crawled over our heads and fell into
night, and we walked toward the rising moon. From the first time
he appeared in my dream’s eye, I knew Sussura was my master.
My untouchable lover. I didn’t feel like a maid from the foreigners’
stories, faint, restless and eager. I felt alive.
Redoubt, my family, my lover were gray-cast compared to the
color of my dreams. They were faded chalk drawings on a dirty wall.
My training possessed substance, but what would I have done with
it? Killing in Redoubt would be a matter of wiping away chalk with
a rag — a quick, artless act committed upon some meaningless
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HE IN MEMORY
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THERE ARE FIVE demons in this crown: lovers, lords, and secret-
keepers. Their voices drift in the flow of sorcery, calling to dreamers,
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HE IN MEMORY
offering their qualities to anyone who will come to Skrye, join the
Dead, and serve his memory. He was Meliae, a shapeshifter of the
eldest race, a being whose memories possessed many masks.
I’m the new, sixth demon who placed the crown on her head
to warn them off. I flit from jewel to jewel, battling the masks of
Sussura. In Redoubt, the Dammalori’s sister dreams of finding her
brother and the secrets he must have found. Sussura appears as her
guide. But then I show her my memory of her dead brother. Now
she won’t come.
My uncle dreams of saving me, but I appear and show him my
frozen, crowned corpse and whisper, “stay away.”
I am not a soul, unless the soul is nothing but the record of one’s
deeds, retold and imagined by dreamers. Everything I show them,
and everything I use to battle Sussura, is a memory — the arts of
war I practiced for so long, my journeys with the Foresters, every
kiss from Vakim, and every story I imagined as it was told to me.
My memory is a kingdom of dragons and unconquerable warriors.
Sussura is only a memory as well, but ancient and inhuman.
He often defeats me, and sends his lure. Yet sometimes I prevail,
and Surinzan dream of a terrible crown and a cursed city, so that
someone will crush the jewels, melt the silver, and burn the towers
of Skrye down.
We’re only memories, of great deeds, traditions, and tragedies.
Sometimes it’s better to forget us, and choose the Way of life.
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EATER OF
THE DEAD
JESS HARTLEY
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E AT E R OF THE DEAD
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JESS HARTLEY
Long ago, the tribes knew the way. But not here. Not now. The
city folk, even those who were once tribes, they do not remember.
They put us in chains, and give our duty to those who are even
blinder than they. With their carts and their spears and their loud
metal noises. Even their own kind mewl and whimper when the
Takers come. It is not right. It is not good. From their wagons,
the Dead rise, they fight, they kill. And those they kill, rise again.
It is not the way. It is not their duty. It is not their place.
It is mine.
THE MEAT IS gone. I hunger. It has been a full cycle of the moons since I
have eaten. The streets I hunt are quiet, the weather mild. Few fall from
plague or starvation or exposure, and even the violent deaths seem few
and far between lately. Hunger drives me. I range further, but the sun
begins to rise and my belly is still empty. I turn back towards my den.
My path takes me past the hovel where I found my last meal,
and desperation goads me to sniff there. Perhaps the cub took on
its mother’s ailment. Perhaps it was too young to feed itself and
starved. In hungry times, one can only hope.
The hut is dark, but empty. New rags in a far corner smell of
the meat-cub, but the scent of illness is long gone. The tiny fire
circle is cold, but still smells of fire, maybe a day or two old. But
no smell of death, no smell of food.
Sun breaks through holes in the roof, and I can rely on my
eyes along with my other senses. Inside the hovel, every inch of
wall and ceiling has been marked. Designs — lines and curves and
circles — have been carved into the wood, uniting the makeshift
heap of refuse into one united whole. The far wall, near the sleeping
nest, is an expanse of stone, the wall between the city and what
lies beyond. It is covered in pictures; birds, animals, people. At the
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I wait, expecting a trap, but the cub’s scent fades quickly, leaving
behind the faintest wisp of something else. I ignore it, but it creeps
through my nostrils, swirling at the back of my tongue. My mouth
fills with moisture, and my belly growls, echoing in the den.
Warily, I slip out toward the entrance of my den, expecting a
trap to be sprung at any moment. Instead, I find only the source
of my growing hunger. A rat, or rather half of one. The meaty
haunches have been removed, but the head and upper body, the
juicy innards, all remain.
It does not smell of poison, nor of rot. I do not understand why
the man-cub left it, but a full belly is better than an empty one.
I am not one to let confusion stand in the way of a meal.
NIGHT FALLS, AND I wake. I have slept longer than normal, the pains
in my belly soothed by the meat-cub’s gift. I listen and sniff before
emerging from my den; its secrecy is as much a matter of survival
as comfort. There is no sound from outside, nothing near, at least.
The smells are the same as always; piss and rot. Only tonight, there
is something else.
The sick-meat’s child has returned. I wait, ears twitching to
catch sign of her location. Leather on stone from an unthinking
step. An impatient sigh as she waits. The shuffle of rags as she
shifts her position.
I wait. The moons rise; night-shadows at the entrance to my
den slowly slip as the half-bright lights move across the sky. Still
there is no sound.
I inhale deeply, doubting my own senses. Is this just the
remainder of her earlier visit? Some sweat-soaked rag left behind
that is tricking my nose? Finally, my belly rumbles, and hunger
overrides caution. I slip out of the den and into the darkness.
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THE CUB HUNTS with me now. She does not eat as I eat, but what
remains on those who fall is enough to keep her belly full: She
trades their rags, their shoes, what little is in their pockets, for a
wedge of bread here, a cup of water there.
She is small and quick. She runs the tops of ruins, of walls, like
it was a broad city street. Her eyes are sharp, although her nose
and ears might as well not be present for all that she uses them.
She looks away when I eat. I do not have the words to tell her
of my duty, of my people. She does not have the words to tell me
why she follows me.
We try.
The name she calls herself does not come to my tongue. It is
like the sound a bone makes when it cracks beneath the teeth, but
made far back in her throat like she has something stuck there she
cannot swallow.
Instead, I call her by a word I barely remember. It means cub
of one who is not mine, but who I watch over. In the times before
the Dead, it was for the child of one’s sister, the orphan of one’s
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brother, or the offspring one’s mate has with other mates. Small
one. Not mine. Still I watch.
She does not understand but she responds.
Her word for me is a garbled growl, barely recognizable as
words. I try to explain that I have not been given a name of my
own. I remember no parents to name me. I have no mate to call me
a new name, different from my birth. No tribe to serve, and accept
their name as my duty-name. No family. No friend. No one to call
me anything other than that which I call myself.
I cannot explain that the words she mangles are not for me
alone, but for my role, my people, my duty.
She does not understand, but I respond.
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stone I’d affixed there. This kind of club would cause too much
trouble for me in the streets, but here in my den I made the rules.
The noise comes again, closer. I push back into the darkest
crevice, just before my sleeping room, and raise my weapon. As the
intruder nears, the smell grows. Shit. Piss. Rot. And old, old blood.
My eyes see well in the dark, but I do not need them to tell
who, what, is violating my home. As the creature draws near, I
tighten my grip on my club. When it comes within range, I swing.
The Dead moves faster than thought, folding backwards at the
waist at an impossible angle. My club, denied its target, hits the far
wall of the entry with a bone-jarring crash. My hand goes numb,
and the weapon clatters to the ground.
The smiling meat-thing straightens and leaps for me. Its hands
tighten around my throat before I can react. They squeeze, and as
I struggle, the noise I’d heard earlier comes again.
Heh… heh… heh…
The dead-meat’s mouth opens in a snarl, the corners arch
upward. It’s eyes gleam with malice… and pleasure.
Heh… heh… heh...
The Dead is laughing.
Flailing, I strike at the meat-thing with my hands. Its flesh
is old and putrid. Layers of tattered skin, rancid fat, and rotting
muscle shred beneath my claws. Its grip on my throat shows no
sign of weakness, however. I tear at its forearms until my nails
scratch bare bone, but its decaying hands are like a steel slave
collar, shrinking mercilessly around my windpipe. I grab between
the bones, try to yank them apart, but the creature’s putrescence
betrays me. I cannot keep hold.
My head reels. The meat-thing locks its unblinking gaze with
mine, and begins to draw me forward. My knees buckle, and I tumble
to the floor with the moving-dead on top of me. Its grip never falters.
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SEEDS
ERIN M. EVANS
The sun crept over the rooftops, and soon the little garden
— Maesa’s oasis in the cruel landscape of Redoubt — would be
broiling hot. She nudged the mushroom pots deeper under the
makeshift benches, out of the heat, and tucked rags around the
beans’ roots. She pulled the pot of aconite out into the center of
the garden, its blue hooded flowers bobbing cheerfully as she
did. Everything in order, she climbed down the ladder, into the
hovel below.
The burnt and burning smell of tetsgamar leaves forced its
way into Maesa’s nose. Babi Atropa was bent over her worktable,
painstakingly shredding the pale, flat leaves into ribbons and
murmuring an atonal hymn to Jirhal. The old woman’s gnarled
hands moved patiently, deliberately. On the wall beyond, a faded
hanging obscured the image of the goddess. Maesa felt as if Jirhal
were somehow pressing at it, at the very fabric of the world.
Maesa looked over at the front door, at the dark curtain pulled
wide. Anyone who wandered by would hear and see everything. All
it would take was one person going to the Magisterium…
When she twitched the curtain shut, Babi interrupted her hymn
with a sniff. She gave Maesa a dark look, and her apprentice flushed.
Babi Atropa took the black-handled blade from beside her and
pricked her withered palm. A slow drop of blood rose up along
the cut — not enough. Babi scowled and squeezed the cut until
the drop fell into the leaves. Then a second drop.
Maesa came to stand beside the ancient priestess, offering her
own palm.
“If you’d been here,” Babi Atropa said, wincing as she squeezed
the third drop from the cut, “that might have been an option. But
this one’s all mine.” The offering finished, she rubbed her scarred
hands together. “Bundle it up and take it to Namaar. And don’t let
him tell you the price has changed, not one coin different.”
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“Yes, Babi,” Maesa said, sweeping the leaves into a little pouch.
Tetsgamar was a powerful poison, but in the right hands a powerful
curative, and likely the only thing in Redoubt that would keep
Namaar al-Houtet breathing.
“You’d do better to pay attention to what I’m doing,” Babi
Atropa said. “The Watch will come or they won’t. Closing the door
won’t make a difference.”
“Yes, Babi.” Maesa pulled the door-curtain open once more,
letting in a shaft of sunlight. She did not fear the Dead even the
way she feared the Magisterium. But Babi Atropa refused to pay
such things any mind, even as she mixed poisons and called on a
goddess everyone wished would stay silent.
“I have to stop on the way back and get water,” Maesa said.
“Do you need anything else while I’m out?”
“Take some grain and see if you can get another fish for dinner.
And Maesa?” The younger woman looked back at her mentor. The
light from the doorway didn’t quite reach Babi Atropa, perched
on her stool.
“Don’t bother looking upriver,” Babi Atropa said.
Namaar was grateful as always, nervous as always. No one
needed to know he sought out the cures of Babi Atropa, respectable
as he was, but her remedies worked best, after all. Nothing else
loosened his cramped lungs. Maesa nodded politely as he handed
over a sack full of grain and a sack full of pigeonshit, the best
fertilizer in Redoubt. Maesa shoved the bottle of olive oil he passed
her down into its stinking depths. The number of people who would
steal pigeonshit was vanishingly small, even in the Downs.
On the path home, as the land rose away from the river, if
Maesa looked back she could see the shining Old City, the home
of Redoubt’s wealthy and noble.
Another world, she thought, only a short walk away.
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Once, when she was small and Babi Atropa had still been strong
enough to bring her remedies to the right customers, Maesa had
pointed up at the Inner City, asking, “Which is the house of my
father?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Babi Atropa said. “He’s not coming back,
and you wouldn’t be let in if you found it.”
“But if I belong there—”
Babi Atropa had turned her around, facing down the mountain’s
slope toward the outer wall, toward the wide-open world full of the
fearsome Dead. “You belong here as much as you belong anywhere,”
she’d said. “You look up, but you forget to look down, you forget
where you could fall.”
Maesa hurried on, picturing the bright, whitewashed houses
even as she kept her eyes on the dirty stones beneath her feet.
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come before she lived at the end of the alley in the Downs, and now
she was so very old that no human alive could have known. She’d
simply always been there: The poison witch. The priestess of Jirhal.
The people of the Downs would have been handsomely
rewarded if they’d handed her over to the Church, but every one
of them knew the chance still remained that they’d all be dead in
their beds if they did. Jirhal prized cunning, wisdom, survival. Babi
Atropa turned the goddess’s darkness into blessings, purgatives,
and paralytics made into medicine. Or — for the right price —
not. When Maesa’s father had returned to the Inner City, when
enough time had passed without word, without her mother and
herself being sent for, that Maesa’s mother had started walking
the midnight path again to keep them fed. Babi Atropa came
to treat sores, to clear out her womb, and Maesa’s mother was
crying every time.
One day she bought a small packet, two red and black seeds,
bright as beads. The next morning she didn’t wake up.
The Corpsemen chased Maesa from the tenement, told her to
go find her rich papa. Babi Atropa was waiting in the street like
an aspect of death.
“You killed her,” Maesa said.
“The kaincha killed her,” the old woman said. “And do you
think she wouldn’t have found a way without it?” Her dark eyes
flicked over Maesa, then seven years old. “I see the second seed
wasn’t for you?”
Maesa’s chest burned hot and sudden. “She wouldn’t have
done that.”
“It would have been a kindness.” And then Babi Atropa had
offered her a choice of two gifts: A third kaincha seed to save her
from the brutal end she was sure to meet on the streets of the
Downs, or the chance to become Babi Atropa’s apprentice.
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“This is the only kindness you’ll get from me,” the old woman
had warned her. “You earn your keep.”
For a long time, Maesa worried she wouldn’t be able to satisfy
the grim old woman; she chased Babi Atropa’s approval like it was
a fish in the river. Babi Atropa kept teaching her, kept feeding her,
and did not throw her back to the Downs, and eventually Maesa
realized that was as close to satisfaction — as close to affection —
as she would ever get.
In the narrow alley that led to Babi Atropa’s home, Jerissa, a
pretty whore who lived three buildings down, stood with her little
son balanced on one hip, hovering close enough to the doorway that
the crone’s reputation bought her safety from anyone who might
think she made an easy target. She smiled nervously at Maesa, baring
gapped teeth behind her dark-stained lips. The little boy lay against
Jerissa’s shoulder, pale lashes wilting against his sallow cheeks.
“Not better?” Maesa asked.
Jerissa smoothed the little boy’s reddish hair. “The fever still
comes and all the milk and herb-water I get into him, he shits right
back out. Cries all night, off and on.”
Maesa’s stomach fluttered. A bad sign, but there were more
cures to try. “I think we have something. Let me talk to Babi.”
Jerissa shifted her son higher up her hip, pursed her stained
mouth. “I can’t pay much,” she said apologetically. “Can’t take
customers while he’s crying. I’ve barely enough to get the water
he needs.”
Bad to worse. She could already hear Babi Atropa: “I don’t deal
in charity.” She had pushed through the curtain before she heard
the man speaking.
“Whatever you ask,” he said, “I’ll pay it.”
Maesa ducked back through the curtain, hovering on the edge
of the threshold. His voice hummed in her brain like a cloud of
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flies, and it took a moment for her to realize Jerissa was staring at
her, worried.
“Go home,” Maesa said. “Get more water in him, and in yourself.
I’ll convince her.”
She didn’t watch to see when Jerissa left, but clutched the edge
of the curtain in one hand. The man stood with his back to her,
broad-shouldered and dressed in well-made, if simple clothes. But
his voice was an Angat nobleman’s, crisp and imperious.
“Of course you will,” Babi Atropa said. “What you’re asking
for isn’t a poultice or a powder. You need magic. And magic costs.”
The nobleman was silent, all the perils of that offer seething
in the lull. Magic was proscribed — worse than proscribed.
Maesa’s stomach turned. Babi’s spells hadn’t brought the Watch,
yet. If they’d created a backlash, it had happened too far away
to sort out.
“Come now,” Babi Atropa said. “If you thought this could be
dealt with using seeds and powders alone, you would have sent
your man. You know what you’re asking for. You know the price.”
“Whatever it is,” the man said again, “I’ll pay it.”
Babi Atropa smiled to herself. “Come back in two days.”
“I can’t wait two days—”
“You will,” Babi Atropa said. “Because that’s when I’ll be ready.
Bring six weights of grain, a weight of seeds, and the boy.”
Maesa stepped into the end of the alley as the man came out.
He glanced at her, hardly seeing her, nodded once. His eyes were
blue, Maesa realized. Blue as aconite blossoms.
“Who was that?” she asked Babi Atropa.
“A customer. Is Big Meryam’s tea ready?”
“Have you met him before?”
Babi Atropa eyed her stonily. “Never in my life. Pull me down
some deadman’s bells and go pick a new bunch to dry.”
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She could make it herself. Babi would surely notice if the bottle
on the shelf went missing, but not a branch of her tree; not when
she couldn’t climb the ladder to the roof any longer. Maesa could
take Jerissa’s payment late, and it wouldn’t be charity. And it would
give her something to do, besides wondering about the nobleman,
about which house on the high cliffs was his, about whether he
had a little garden.
One of the smaller branches would do nicely, Maesa thought,
taking up her little hatchet.
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she took the basin from the table and inverted it over the stream
of smoke.
“Don’t touch it,” Maesa said. “Not until sundown.” She handed
Jerissa a little bagful of more chips. “If you stop smelling the smoke,
you can add some more of these to the pan through the hole by
the base. I’ll be back with the rest.”
“Thank you,” Jerissa said again.
Maesa smiled. “We’re all in this together.” She paused. “Try
and sleep. You look as though you’re dead on your feet.”
“Feel it, too,” Jerissa said, with a hollow laugh. “I’ll rest after I
bargain for some more water.”
Maesa left the tenement, winding her way through the Downs
and into farther, safer neighborhoods, to call in favors for Babi
Atropa — a rare herb here, a fresh hare there, new candles, charcoal.
The ancient silver knife to be sharpened. Maesa paid out weight
after weight of grain, and returned home again, laden down with
the ingredients for the kind of magic that brought a rich man down
to Babi Atropa’s doorstep.
In her life with Babi Atropa, Maesa had seen her call on Jirhal’s
powers three times. Without a doubt, those were the three most
terrifying moments of Maesa’s life — both for the danger they
represented and the feeling that she would slide soon enough into
Jirhal’s dark embrace as well.
When she returned home, Babi Atropa was awake and bent
over the worktable, a neat pile of diced roots to one side. “You’re
late,” she observed.
“Your list took a lot of running around,” Maesa said. “But I
have it all, and a pair of fish for dinner.”
“Good girl,” Babi Atropa said, rising stiffly from her seat.
Maesa unpacked her collection. The sun drooped low in the
sky; she had perhaps a half hour before sundown and the promised
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deadline for Jerissa’s cure. “What’s the ritual for? You never told
me.” Maesa asked, half wanting the answer, half hoping it made Babi
Atropa send her away so she’d stop asking inconvenient questions.
“A cure,” Babi Atropa said, looking over the items on the table
“His son is very sick. His heir is very sick,” she added, a correction.
“His heir?” Maesa’s stomach clenched.
Babi Atropa gave her a death’s head grin. “Yes, but not for long.
A wasting sickness. His blood has turned on him.”
“You don’t think he cares about his son?”
“Rich man like that? You don’t pay that much grain and more
for love of your own blood. You do it to protect your interests.”
“It could be both.”
“It isn’t.” She crouched down on the floor beside the ladder to
the rooftop, pulled up the battered rug there, revealing a little door
in the dry and cracking floorboards. Out of it she took a bundle in
a leather bag, and Babi Atropa’s grin peeled wider.
“Drain the hare and get dinner started. There’s much to do
tonight.”
THE DARK OF the Downs made the slum all the more dangerous,
the flickering oil lamps swarmed by prostitutes and jacks-for-hire
so that bodies filled the meager circle of their light. Maesa hurried
to Jerissa’s, the hare’s blood still staining the beds of her fingernails.
She kept her blackened, bone-handled knife ready in her grip and
the bottle of spirits weighing down the right pocket of her skirt.
More than once the shadows stirred as she passed, but Maesa walked
without a hood, and a steady look was enough to remind the young
wolves amid those shadows not to trouble Babi Atropa’s girl.
A safety that came at a price. She remembered the last ritual,
the feeling of poison in her own blood, the nosebleed she thought
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would drain her right to the base of her heart. “Jirhal tests us,” Babi
Atropa had said. “The feeble cannot serve her.”
Maesa knocked a third time before Jerissa opened her door. She
looked worse than she had that morning, her skin jaundiced and
her eyes more hollow still. The smell of the rooms was atrocious.
“Blood of the Dead!” Maesa cursed. “You have it, too.”
“I’ll live,” Jerissa said, her voice sounding dry.
No, you won’t, Maesa thought. She pushed past her into the
room. The smoke no longer drifted from the little chimney, and
beneath the hood of the basin a puddle of golden liquid pooled.
The bracing smell of the khapurbarus dizzied her.
Enough for one, Maesa thought, her heart hammering in her
chest.
“Have you drunk the tonic?” Maesa asked, breaking the crust
of dried dough away front the collection bowl. There had to be a
solution, a way to save both.
“Ran out,” Jerissa said. “But water’s good enough.” She clutched
her stomach suddenly, and without a word, rushed from the room.
Maesa cursed and cursed. With shaking hands, she poured the
distillate into the bottle of spirits. Water wouldn’t be enough.
Jerissa’s son lay in his little cot, looking exactly as bad as he had
that afternoon. Jerissa had been giving him all the water, Maesa
realized as the whore returned.
Maesa thrust the medicine into Jerissa’s hand, her thoughts
spinning. “Take this,” she said. “You should take it — you’re in
worse shape. I’ll go and get the other dose from Babi’s stores.”
Maesa already imagined Babi Atropa’s fury when she discovered
the khapurbarus in spirits missing.
She needs you now, Maesa thought. To tend the garden, to move
the heavy books, to run her errands. You can do this.
Jerissa looked at her, eyes wide. “She’ll kill you.”
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“YOU LOOK TIRED,” Babi Atropa observed. “Are you going to be able
to handle this?” She kept her hands wrapped covetously around
the tome she’d pulled from beneath the floorboards, as Maesa laid
out the tools on the altar.
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was smooth between her fingertips and grassy on her tongue. The
seeds were older — dry and faintly gray, but still potentially viable
— carrots, parsnips, bloodroot. She nodded to Babi.
“Then we are ready. What’s your name boy?”
The sickly boy looked at his father, who nodded once a moment
too late. “Perel.”
“Well, Perel,” Babi Atropa said, “are you ready?” The boy gave a
timid nod, and the air felt as if it were bristling. Maesa wondered if
Jirhal would approve of using her powers on such a weak creature.
Yes, she thought, knowing Babi Atropa’s answer. If using him
makes us stronger.
If helping him makes us all stronger, Maesa thought. She considered
the blue-eyed rich man a moment and wondered if strengthening
the nobles of the Inner City would do a damned thing for Redoubt.
“Maesa, why don’t you take our guest to the gardens?” Babi
Atropa said, never taking her eyes from the boy.
“I’d rather stay here,” the man said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Babi Atropa said.
“If you cross me, witch—”
“You’ll what?” Babi Atropa asked in a lazy way. “Go to the
Magisterium and tell them what you paid me to do? Rest assured,
my lord, I didn’t get to be this old by acting foolish. Perel will get
his blessing. But it suits my needs and yours if you don’t watch.
Let Maesa show you the garden on the roof.” She smiled at him.
“You’ll know when to come back.”
Perel shot his father an unacknowledged look that then bounced
to Maesa. She offered him a small smile, but there was no reassuring
him. It wouldn’t be pleasant, it wouldn’t be pretty. It wouldn’t be
all right. But he might not die.
The rich man suddenly took a step toward Maesa. “Well, then,”
he said. “Let’s get this over with.” He gestured to the guards.
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“One can stay,” Babi Atropa said, as thought she were offering
him something. The rich man stiffened. He glanced halfway over
his shoulder and pointed at one, a broad-shouldered man with the
look of one of the Ouazi. “You. Stay with my son.”
The other guard preceded Maesa and the rich man up the
ladder, tense with the possibility of an ambush. Once he’d searched
and re-sheathed his blade, the rich man gave the gardens a cursory
pass, peering at flowers, tugging on the leaf of a bean vine. “So, you
grow your food here?”
“Among other things,” Maesa said. His hand snapped back as
though burned. “That one is food,” Maesa added. “Although if not
boiled properly, the peas will make you very sick. We use them
fresh as a purgative. In small amounts.”
“Hmm,” he said, looking up at the edge of the next building,
the wall of her little garden. “You don’t have thieves?”
“We do. Once every few months I find a body. If you’re foolish
enough to steal from the ‘poison witch,’ you’re too foolish to know
what you can’t touch.” She crossed to the kaincha vine, its dark leaves
mottled in the fading light, its pods just beginning to split. “This one
is the most potent. A single seed, even uncrushed, will kill a person.”
“Fascinating.”
“It killed my mother,” she added, before she could stop herself.
A pause. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Maesa looked back at him. The nose… something flickered
through her memory at the shape of his nose. “Babi never told me
your name.”
“I was assured of my privacy.”
“Of course.” She swallowed against the bitter taste in her mouth,
and her ears crackled. The eyes were blue and his nose made her
remember and he might have flinched at her name. Don’t think about
it, she told herself. But like Jirhal, the curiosity was hard to deny.
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not right away. She brushed the brittle leaves of each of her poor,
sacrificed plants, rubbing the broken bits between her fingers as if
it would tell her something she didn’t know. Dead, dead, all dead.
Weeks and weeks of careful work — years of collecting enough
seeds for a dozen dowries, and it was lost in a moment.
The khapurbarus’s leaves stayed curled, but green. Not quite
a poison, not quite a blessing, Maesa thought. At last she climbed
down the ladder, still shaking. The nobleman and his son had left,
along with the guard. Blood stained the floorboards, more blood
than the hare’s.
“Did you kill the guard?” Maesa asked.
“Not entirely,” Babi Atropa said, wiping her silver knife down.
“He chose well — strong fellow, young. He might live, and be better
off for it. Assuming his master isn’t a fool.”
“The plants… all the ones that weren’t poisonous died.” Tears
suddenly sprung up in her eyes, and Babi Atropa frowned.
“Risen enemies,” she spat. “I knew I should have asked for
more.” Maesa sat down and covered her face with her hands. The
old woman gripped her shoulder with a sudden strength.
“You will defeat this,” she said. “It is a test.”
“My whole life is a test, it seems,” Maesa said. “Is he my father?”
Babi Atropa released her. “Why do you care?”
“Because I deserve to know.”
“Because you think he’s your escape? He’s not,” Babi Atropa
demanded. “There isn’t an escape.”
“I’m well aware,” Maesa said. Then, “Is it so wrong I think
about my father?”
“It’s wasted time,” Babi Atropa said. “He doesn’t want you. He
never did.”
Maesa turned on her. “It’s my time, I’ll use it how I like.”
“And so shall he,” Babi Atropa said. “Looks like he replaced you.”
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MAESA RAN.
The words had no more than left Babi Atropa’s lips, but she
ran. How much deadman’s bells? How strong had Babi Atropa
brewed it? It wouldn’t kill instantly, not usually. But then Jerissa was
already sick and the khapurbarus straining her body as it poisoned
the worms in her guts. Maesa’s feet slapped the cobbled road while
her thoughts weighed doses and timetables and the battle of poison
and cure.
The little boy’s hysterical screaming reached her ears as she
came to Jerissa’s building, and Maesa’s heart stuttered. She took
the stairs two at a time, up to Jerissa’s rooms.
A small crowd hovered around the door. A big, red-faced man
— Georg, a farmhand whose arm Maesa had helped Babi set last
year — pounded on the door. “Shut that brat up, or I’m coming
in there!”
“Break it down!” Maesa cried. “Break it down at once!”
Georg turned at the order, furious enough to deny her, but
his eyes widened at the poison witch’s apprentice and he slammed
his heavy shoulder-once, twice, three times into the door until it
popped open.
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Even walking into the space made the fragile, ashen leaves stir
and shatter. There would be nothing here to eat — she knew that.
If Maesa was a fool, then Jirhal and Babi Atropa were ten times
that. If they all died then the goddess could hardly live on as she
had. They said once the gods numbered as the stars, but since the
world fell, since the Dead rose, the gods had died as their worshipers
did. That Jirhal had survived might be a testament to her doctrine’s
strength, but it had clearly reached its limits.
The scent of the aconite hit Maesa’s nose. So have you, she
thought. She set the little boy down on the ground, but he clung
to her. Babi was right — it might be a blessing. The kaincha seeds
peered out at her from their husks.
Think of it that way, Maesa thought, steeling herself. Only the
strongest can survive.
MAESA LADLED SOUP into two bowls, her stomach still threatening
to upend. She couldn’t undo what she’d done. She’d long since
scrubbed the mix of Jerissa and her son’s blood from her hands,
but it didn’t feel that way. She set a bowl in front of Babi Atropa,
and sat on the floor beside the ladder, next to her gardening tools.
Maesa touched the handle of her spade, thought of the seeds she’d
saved, and wondered if Jirhal’s touch had tainted them, too.
Babi Atropa said nothing, but took a bite of soup, wincing at
the heat. “We have to catch up on several preparations,” she said.
“And you’ll have to make more of the liquid khapurbarus.”
Maesa stirred her soup and nodded, thinking of Jerissa’s grateful
expression and the smell of the khapurbarus that had lingered
faintly in the room she’d died in.
Babi Atropa chuckled. “At least you’ve toughened up.” She took
another bite of soup. “Spicy. What’s in it?”
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Maesa would never leave the Downs. Not now; not if she
believed even half of what she said she did. Babi Atropa was right.
These people would die without her and Jirhal to make the poisons
work against their sicknesses. Otherwise, there would be no saving
them all, no life for Redoubt.
If Maesa stayed, so would Jerissa’s son, and so he would become
the assistant of the poison witch. Over and over, the cycle would
run. And Jirhal would survive… so long as they did.
Her mouth itched as if a bitter tincture had dripped across
her tongue.
Only the strongest, Maesa thought, and wondered if it was her
own thought at all.
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came. He’d been a Forerunner for less than a month. What could
he have done wrong so soon? He stroked the blood-bay stallion’s
graying muzzle, calming it as best he could. Where was Anittas, the
Eastgate Watch captain who’d bade Ziru bring this horse onto the
grounds of the White Citadel and await him? What did Anittas
want with Ziru? And with Erok, eldest of the Angat nobility’s sixty
horses, the last within these inner walls? Not even Anittas could
have known yesterday, when he set this meeting, that the swarm
would come today.
Overhead, vast hordes of insects from the south swooped and
sang their rattling song, so loud that people shouted to be heard.
Geese, robins, and grackles dove among the swarms, feasting on the
wing. If the locusts stripped every terraced field, tenement garden,
and window box, most of Redoubt would starve. Folk waving nets
chased the insects up streets and walls and terraces, trying to catch
the bugs to fry and skewer and smoke; from the ramparts, slingers
stoned the feasting birds aloft and the rats scaling walls in search
of dinner.
Citizens of Redoubt, when disparaging, called themselves
the Doubtful, and so they were: humans and non-humans who’d
abandoned all hope but this final refuge, despairing of survival.
Well-nigh four hundred thousand hungry humans, elves, dwarves,
and hairy corpse-eating ghûl languished in Redoubt’s heat, behind
cyclopean battlements, terrified of the undead its towering walls
kept at bay. The precise number of Doubters huddled here cheek by
jowl? None could say. Crowded and furious, scheming and stealing,
oppressing and suffering, breeding and mourning, more fell prey
to one another, dangerous and desperate, than to the restless dead
they all feared.
And in Redoubt, horses, like all large animals, symbolized luxury
only the city’s Angat rulers could afford. Or could afford in former
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times. Now the gossips said the Angat nobility meant to slaughter
all their horses for meat, tan the hides, render the hooves for glue,
the bones for meal, the fat for tallow, and snatch their profit soonest.
Next, the chariots that Ziru’s Piraya ancestors once drove at the
forefront of Menhada battles would be sold for artifacts and scrap,
while the Angat overlords of Redoubt grew richer yet.
“Won’t happen, Erok. Can’t,” Ziru assured the uneasy stallion,
who pawed the ground and watched the sky, flinching when stray
locusts buzzed close.
Too many folk crossing the innermost court of the White
Citadel’s bastion stared at Ziru and the unnerved horse while the
pair waited on Anittas. And waited, and waited, walking the twenty-
seven-year-old stud in circles. Sweat broke out on the horse’s flanks
as Zileska’s two moons — Aurib and his big sister Milijun, if one
honored the Ouazi view — rose early in the swarm-clouded sky.
Whatever Anittas wanted with this horse and Redoubt’s
youngest Forerunner, it couldn’t bode well for the senior stallion
of the Angat band — or for Ziru, chafing under the scrutiny of
overdressed functionaries and anxious rampart guards.
Fools within and chaos without defined life in Redoubt. The
vaunted Fall — when the Dead first stirred — signaled not only a
fall from grace but a fall from civility and freedom, as the rotters
woke. Thereafter, not gods nor men or elves or dwarves or sorcerers
or slaves could be trusted. Zileska became a world ruled by the
undead — except for this single stronghold, offering a last, worst
hope of survival to those Doubters crowded behind its walls.
To delay the inevitable, hold the wall against all comers, Ziru
had spent his teen years laboring for the Watch.
“Hafod protect us all. Grant us the courage to kill without
quarter, the strength to cleave our enemies, and the wisdom to
know friend from foe.” The Forerunner whispered a rote prayer to
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invoke his hereditary war-god, not the lone god of these Angat
magisters in their five tall towers and four palatial outbuildings, a
stolen inner citadel raised to futility and fear.
His god supplicated, Ziru felt better prepared to face whatever
awaited him here.
Overhead, the swarms veered abruptly as ibis joined the fray.
Grackles cried while geese honked, chasing the clouds of insects
north. As the swarm departed, the din abated, but the Forerunner’s
ears still rang. Erok snorted at the clearing skies.
As if Ziru’s prayer were potent, Anittas came striding in a
boiled horsehide breastplate and pectoral studded with brasses
from bygone wars; hair long, grizzled, braided to his breast; war-
belt girt, holding iron sword and bronze claw-headed ax at his hip.
Ceremonial pteruges swayed over his linen shendyt; his leather and
bronze greaves barely squeaked. Menhada riches bedecked Anittas.
An inspiring costume, fit for a leader of Redoubt’s warrior caste,
one descended from charioteers, horsemen, heroes unsurpassed in
times when men and women warred on the broad steppes beyond
the wall.
But no more.
Death had betrayed the Menhada; Amarset, the divine aspect
of death, turned his face from the people and let the Angat and
their one god eclipse honor with wealth and power. Thence came
the Fall. The arrogant Angat Church of Man fielded intolerance
and fear, demeaning all gods but its own in the name of defense
against the Dead.
Warriors no longer sought glorious death in battle. Undead
overran the land and sea. Angat hierarchs and tyrants oppressed
all others, human or not. Worst of all, death came inglorious, full
of fear and suspicion, since any dead hero could rise a rotter unless
cleansed by fire, mummified, eaten by a ghûl, or hacked asunder.
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Ziru ought to know: he was one of the last Piraya, once the
Menhada’s preeminent horsemen. Anittas was his uncle by marriage.
Anittas halted before him, stony eyes weighing Forerunner
and horse. Around the courtyard, quiet fell; the forecourt emptied.
Unseen eyes riveted upon them made Ziru’s skin crawl.
“Hail, Eastgate Watcher,” Ziru said formally and bowed his
head, jerking on the brass chain across the stallion’s nose and
threaded through his halter while the horse bugled at Anittas as
if the Watch captain were a mare. Must be the pteruges, swinging
like a tail…
Or the smell of Ziru’s fear. No meeting with Anittas could be
harmless; his uncle served the Law’s unyielding purpose.
“Hail, Nephew,” said the Watch captain. “Time to slaughter this
old horse you’ve got here. He’s settled no mare this entire season,
and we can use his meat for tonight’s celebration alongside the
locusts, as another delicacy for the feast boards. The Angat won’t
keep feeding that old stud, or others like him. To them, weak horses
are a luxury Redoubt can no longer afford. Take him out of here
and destroy him in our abattoir.”
Kill Erok? Who’d done the Watch and the Angat priceless service
over so many years?
“What? I can’t — you can’t — this horse is beloved of our gods.
He’s our living heritage, one of the few we have left. I cannot…”
“You can. You will. We will. And I require your presence at
tonight’s celebration. You’re the first new Forerunner in many a
day. We’ll accustom the nobles to your face and what you represent:
Menhada fury resurgent. Clean up and then present yourself to me
in uniform over there” — Anittas pointed to the palest building
— “in the old ancestral hall, second moonset. Sentries will expect
you. The Angat ladies will want to meet you. As for old Erok, it’s
merely one more death, boy.”
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Merely one more death? The problem with death in Redoubt is that
you can’t count on it, Anittas, and you know that. You’re thirty years older
than I; why aren’t you wiser? This stallion has his band to protect, a reason
to live on, if that matters.
But Ziru was a Forerunner now; he bit his tongue and said,
“Yes, Captain.” No use pleading Menhada mercy if you’re only a
Piraya boy, born to the steppes and a wisdom all but lost, not to
this walled prison called the city of Redoubt. Piraya were nearly
extinct in Redoubt, bred to raise and train horses in open country.
But here Ziru lived, and here he’d stay. His grandparents had sought
refuge in the city seventy years past, when there was nowhere left
to run but into the arms of the rotters. Today this safe-hold was
assailed by restless dead outside, while inside, humans and their
slaves struggled to survive another killing summer.
This war of attrition could have only one outcome: death for
all in Redoubt, and even worse fates after death for many. Maybe
old Erok would be better off dead.
As if reading Ziru’s mind, the bay stallion threw up his head,
peeled his lips back from his teeth, and blared a challenge to Anittas’
death sentence. Or called upon the horse-god. Or both.
Anittas might in truth be more than Ziru’s ‘uncle’ — his sire
— or less, no blood relation, for all Ziru knew. When his Piraya
parents had died young, fighting revnants, Anittas took the toddler
into his Menhada household. Yet Anittas was no friend of the
Piraya, nor anyone except his cronies in the ruling Angat regime.
Menhada mercy, which once came dependably from whetted blades,
now seldom came at all.
Anittas scowled at the horse, wheeled with a grunt, and left the
way he’d come, long-striding and strong as an ox despite his age.
Mystery wrapped his uncle like a second skin, and not only because
he looked so hale. Some said the Watch captain belonged to the
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ANITTAS KNEW THE Piraya youth would disobey his orders. Anittas
would have done the same, were he that young.
Secretly, he hoped Ziru would try to save the stud. That horse
had done the Angat cavalry (when they’d had one worthy of the
name) invaluable service year after year. Now all that would be
forgotten, and the noble beast eaten. To Anittas’ mind, the Angat
and the Dead and the ghûl were little different, each eating those
more honorable than themselves. The old stud Erok was much like
Anittas: wary, too wise to be swayed, and thus creator of his own fate.
When next Anittas met Ziru, he’d demote the boy to census
taker as punishment for disobeying orders. Which orders didn’t
matter. Ziru had a destiny. The war-god told Anittas what to do
with this boy for reasons as yet unrevealed.
Since such was the way of it with gods, Anittas headed through
hungry streets littered with locusts crunching underfoot, back to
his office, his guest list, and preparations. He was responsible for
security at this evening’s Angat celebration of their own importance,
one that everyone else deemed important must attend.
He’d rented four hairy ghûl to station at the four corners of the
feast hall. They were precautionary, present largely to eat casualties,
if and when the event produced some.
Anittas thought they’d need the ghûl tonight. The omen of
locusts merely confirmed that the world was waxing deadly. So
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said the shades whispering in his ears, and the common sense of
any commander of the Watch. Trouble surely would visit the fete,
with such a clutch of haughty tyrants in one place, unconcerned
about attack.
Passing his sentries, he balled his fist high to catch their salutes
and pretended to care. He didn’t.
One way or another, before morning, blood would spill, death
come sniffing round. Anittas could smell it on the sultry breeze.
And, if he were lucky, a few less of his Angat overlords would see
the dawn.
No better evening’s entertainment could be had, if one was a
follower of the war-god Hafod, as Anittas was. He touched the
lapis amulet, swinging from his neck on a thong, which represented
Hafod driving in his celestial chariot.
Kill and eat his horses, would they? Better they eat their
brothers; worth so much less, pound for pound. Eat warhorses,
despite the value of their dung and piss, their harrowing of fields,
their skill in crowd control and on the battlefield? For food? For
a show of wealth and power? Not without paying a price beyond
their single god’s wildest dreams.
Outside the Inner City’s Eastgate, the doomed Doubters jostled
one another, thick as thieves and true to type, where Anittas’ four-
dwarf palanquin waited.
If Ziru were true to his combative nature, the boy would halt this
short-sighted affront to gods and men — and, in the doing, become
the Eastgate Watch’s latest census taker, as Anittas’ gods decreed.
WHEN KHEBE SAW the young warrior come bold and late to the
feast in mottled battle dress, she was lost to him ere they spoke.
With a swinging gait and steady gaze he walked straight up to
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spoke, he must maintain his bow, holding her hand against his
brow, waiting. Awkward moments stretched until she managed,
“Khebe. I’m Khebe.”
Her mother glared at her; Ankonia scoffed; Klystere sprayed
a giggle. Her three aunts tsked.
The Forerunner straightened up, holding her hand in his as if
he held a partridge egg before releasing her and making his way
down the receiving line of Angat highborn.
“Mother, what’s a Forerunner?” she murmured. She had to know.
“I assure you, Khebe, I shall find out right now.” With a swirl
of silk, her mother made for the formidable Anittas, her back stiff,
heels tapping the black basalt floor.
Deep in misery Khebe saw her mother, hands on hips, interrogate
the Eastgate Watch captain and jut her chin toward Khebe.
Oh, no, Mother, don’t…
“Shall we eat, honored Khebe?” said a low voice behind her,
and there he was: Ziru, graceful as a wolf, hazel eyes earnest. “Let
me fill your plate.”
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would assume the White Citadel’s highest tower could keep them
safe enough to pile meat on their feast-boards while so many nearby
went hungry and the Dead prowled. “I’d rethink that, and run. Now.
Take Khebe with you. Warn the others.”
Ziru drew his curved shortsword. “Run,” he urged again.
Misunderstanding, face flushed, Quillius drew his own
shortsword. He brandished it, whuffling the air between them.
“You challenge me, Piraya? Threaten me here?”
“Khebe,” Ziru pleaded, “run.” He dodged the hostile Angat’s
sword and pushed the girl bodily away from the arrowloop. “Run.
Now. Inside. Find Anittas. Tell him to rouse the guard, raise the
alarum, look to the arrowloops. Rotters—”
Khebe staggered and stared, incredulous, between them.
“Are you deaf, girl? Rotters!” Ziru pushed Khebe again, harder.
He’d hoped to charm her, get her alone out here where this merlon
jutted, steal a kiss, maybe more. Such beauty made a man forget
his duty.
But not for long.
Ziru had been discovered, at the most wrong of times, by this
Angat noble with a prior claim to the girl, a ceremonial blade, and
a pimple nesting in his wispy goatee.
The truculent Angat reached left-handed for Khebe, but didn’t
catch her, too busy waving his blade at Ziru where the alcove wall
jutted, obscuring what lay beyond its corner.
“Now, Khebe… run!”
With a shrug and an accusing stare, Khebe picked up her
skirts, wheeled, and ran toward Anittas and her mother, who were
chatting with many-braided Zalla, she who ruled the Menhada’s
Barakal council.
“Angat, move away.” Ziru watched the arrowloop behind the
angry young noble. “I need room and a clear—”
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“I’ll go, Watcher. Give me three men, torches, hooks, and rope.
We’ll pull them off or dump flaming oil on them. I—”
Anittas glared at him. “Boy, you’ll go nowhere. What have you
done here? Forerunner, answer me.”
Khebe raced up to Anittas, pulling on his arm, sobbing.
Ziru considered the crowd’s eyes on him, the girl with tears on
her cheeks, and answered Anittas: “I killed two rotters, wounded
a third. This Angat got in my way, died in the scuffle. Now let me
finish the job. I need to get outside, Watcher.”
The three Angat revelers with Anittas were shouting their
own slurred orders so that the Eastgate Watch captain scowled.
Instead of ordering men to the other arrowloops, one noble called
“To me,” the second demanded an escort out of the hall, and the
third summoned sentries to the doors.
“Please, Watcher. I need to scout the grounds.” Once the words
left his lips, Ziru knew them to be the wrong words, but what would
have been the right ones?
“I said you’ll stay here with me, Forerunner.” One hand on his
hip, Anittas glared disapprovingly from Ziru to the pile of bloody
remains, and back. “And don’t look at me that way.”
But Ziru’s hot blood spoke for him. “Stay with you? If this
tower’s twenty loops each let in two or three rotters, by now they’re
pushing through the corridors. Keeping all these tasty Doubters
confined in here will mean their deaths.”
“Silence. You killed an Angat, and admit you did. Under the
circumstances, I’m within the law to banish you or indenture you
without trial.” Anittas voice boomed. Ziru’s uncle meant the crowd
to hear every word; he wanted control of the situation… and the
Forerunner’s fate. “But I won’t. In penance, you’ll serve as my census
taker until I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson.” He turned to the
three fops with him and spoke first in some Magisterium verbiage
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Ziru didn’t know, then in Angati, louder, when those two argued.
“Get Takers and ghûl to clean up this mess before these rotters
rise again and chase us around the feast-boards.”
“With that Angat boy Quillius in the lead,” Ziru said under
his breath.
“What did I tell you? Not one more word, boy.” Anittas stare-
slapped him hard across the face. “Stand quiet, stand ready.”
An old army saying that meant ‘danger is near at hand.’
Ziru dropped his eyes, bowed his head, and saluted, then wiped
his sword on a handy wall hanging before he sheathed it. He could
hear Anittas’ low orders to the nobles with him and Khebe’s muffled
sobbing that none of this was Ziru’s fault. A dead Angat lay mixing
bodily fluids with a rotter, because of him. Death, never to be trusted,
lay on the White Citadel’s floor, seeping into every crevice in the
basalt, every heart, every mind here to witness. The corpsemen
would soon sort the pieces of the damned from the pieces of the
Angat. What would happen then to Quillius, the young Angat noble
already bathed in restless blood and touched by restless maggots,
none could say for certain.
What would befall Ziru, Anittas had summarily decreed:
Census-taking in Redoubt was low-caste work, dangerous duty,
harsh punishment. But Anittas spoke for the law, could have banished
him from the Inner City, enslaved him on the spot, or expelled him
from the Watch, each worse than census taking. If Ziru had not
already defied Anittas by freeing the stallion beyond the wall, the
Watcher might have been more lenient, or at least not announced
Ziru’s punishment before the most powerful people in Redoubt.
All this in front of Khebe, who peered at him from behind
Anittas with round eyes nearly as red from weeping as a rotter’s. After
this debacle, she’d want no more to do with him; he’d gone from
hero of the Watch to lowly census taker in one unforeseeable fracas.
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“I’M A DOLT, an imbecile,” Ziru confided to the marsh grass and the
stream and the stallion snuffling the back of his neck. “I should
have anticipated that the Angat lordling would attack me. I should
have taken him seriously.”
Erok snorted in Ziru’s hair, then at his cheek.
“At least you’re thriving.” He stroked the old warhorse’s velvety
muzzle. He’d smuggled a bag of oats out here, and with his free hand,
held it up to the horse’s face. The morning was muggy; tiny bugs rose
in clouds from the swampy grass if Ziru moved too fast. “Now, Erok,
I’ll give you these oats and you’ll tell me what to do.” No war-gods
would heed Ziru’s prayers, nor entreaties from a lowly census taker
coming empty-handed to an altar forgotten since ancient times.
He sat on the altar stone by the mud-caked horse. Horses were
wiser than men; the clouds of insects had no interest in a horse coated
with mud. In the undergrowth between swamp cedars, near the flax
among the berries of the surrounding bog, he glimpsed another horse’s
head, black, with leery eyes and the longest whiskers he’d ever seen.
Ziru rose up, sluiced insects and dirt off the stone and poured
oats on it. He should have brought some olive oil, fit libation for
the war-god. But of course he hadn’t. Wiping chaffy hands on his
linen tunic, he told the old stud his entire tale of woe as he studied
the black horse and Erok began to lip the pile of oats.
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At least Erok had found a friend. Horses are herd animals, much
like men. This black horse, in the dappled light between the swamp
cedars behind the altar, had a fine head, gray eyebrows, tipped-in
ears. She was old, but Erok had found a mare. “Build a band, old
man. Make a new life.” He patted the stud on the shoulder. “A
better life. And someday, a better death.”
Erok threw up his head and snorted, spraying Ziru with frothy
oats. The black mare whinnied and disappeared into the shadows
beneath the white cedars.
“Is that what you seek out here, young man? A better death?”
said a phlegmy voice right behind him.
Ziru stiffened, then forced his muscles to relax. The restless
seldom spoke; he didn’t even know if they could. But then, who or
what snuck up on him here? Embarrassed at having been surprised,
hands well away from his weapons, he turned.
A face older than stone confronted him. Blue eyes, filmed with
gray, looked him over. Stringy hair hung down to bony hips. A
churlish mouth twitched as the stooped hag took one step toward
him, then another.
“What are you?” he said, angry now that he saw this intruder
was frail and unarmed.
“Me? I’m your last hope, boy. You are Piraya? You look it. I
heard you all were dead.”
“Not yet dead. But working on it.” He looked harder. “What
are you? What line? What blood?”
This crone wore hemp sandals; a rope belt held a leather pouch
over her linen shift. “Me? I am Gihardu, here to tell you that death
will come seeking you, creeping up on you, and that all you love
be lost.”
“You’re too late with that warning, Gihardu.” Demented? A
witch? A ghost? Some new kind of undead, about to launch itself
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an altar frequented by gods, out in the bog and the swamp amid
the flax and the berries.
He left her to it and went back the way he’d come, toward
the wall.
He thought again about the Gihardu witch. No use recording
her presence; he shouldn’t be out here, and everyone knew no
Gihardu remained in Redoubt.
All you love be lost.
He’d tried to see Khebe, but her mother refused. Twice. He’d
asked Anittas why, and the Eastgate Watcher said, “You ask me why?
You killed an Angat. They won’t forget. Stay away from the Angat,
and far away from that Angat girl. You’ve caused me trouble enough.”
So maybe the witch told him true, but maybe not. She never
did give him her name.
KHEBE SNUCK INTO the hot, moonlit night with currency in her
purse and rebellion on her mind. She’d bought silence where she
must. Her nanny helped her into a wicker basket with raw silk under
her and over her, and off she went to her father’s loading docks in
a dwarf-drawn wagon, unseen and unrepentant.
Her house slaves had found out where Ziru went after work,
where census takers gathered, out in the rough of the city, a place
called Stoat’s Throat near the Eastgate headquarters of the Watch.
She peered through the weave of the wicker basket in which
she hid. She’d never been so far east, never thought to bump and
jostle her way through streets where pickpockets and whores and
farmers from the volcanic terraces gathered. People in tribal dress
cursed folk in rags; tattooed street gangs roamed in packs, shoving
and snarling at each other, fighting for breathing room on a night
too warm to spend indoors. The smell from oily torches mixed
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poorly with onions and garbage and unwashed humans and elves
and dwarves and ghûl.
Khebe had never been so close to the outer wall of Redoubt,
the city once called Elldimek by dwarves lifting blocks twice their
size to dizzying heights. Here the outer wall towered, close and
tall, blotting out the stars and biting the night in half, a reminder
that all within lived under constant threat.
Khebe needed no reminder. She needed to see Ziru, to
apologize, to explain.
Then her wagon stopped. “Goodly era,” came a dwarf ’s voice,
“we are where you wish to be.” The wicker lid of her hamper creaked
open. Her chamber slaves, tonight her bearers, made a fleshy stair
which she descended, from back to back to back to back, until she
stood on the filthy street.
Now she spied the swinging sign, The Stoat’s Throat, with a painted
stoat sitting on its haunches, mouth wide below a streaming cask.
“Stay, Decit,” she told her driver, and knew he would be here
when she returned. Already her hamper was shut tight and her
four personal slaves guarding the wagon.
The noise and smells and crowds overwhelmed her. Could
she brave, alone, this smoky den of rough men and women? She’d
dressed for it, as if for a masquerade, in a cowled cloak of tatted
linen that reached to her ankles. Fear doubled her heart’s thump.
She must press on by herself, or turn right now and leave. She
couldn’t venture unremarked into this place with her slaves picking
up her cloak’s hem. In places like these, hired help could be bought
for a pittance, and slaves for even less, hired for the promise of a
full belly and clean water.
“Good m’lady?” said Decit, deferentially disapproving, torchlight
from the doorway dancing on his broad nose and swarthy skin.
“Anything else?”
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“I’ll not be long.” He’d marked her hesitation; she couldn’t let
her slaves see her fear. She strode bravely forth, unaccompanied.
Normally her guards would have accompanied her, one before,
one behind, one on either side. But not this time, not here. With a
deep gulp of rancid air, she wove her way through a sweaty throng
to the bar’s doorway, bumping one and then another; pushing and
being pushed, collecting snarls and curses. How could all these
people ever find beds?
Inside, the tavern held so many folk she couldn’t see beyond
them, over them, or around them. “Excuse me; sorry; please make
way,” she repeated, squeezing and blundering her way toward a bar
four deep with men and women in Eastgate Watch attire.
The crew at the bar rippled; some turned toward her; heads
bent. When she sidled between two, then two more, to reach the
bar, she couldn’t get the barkeep’s attention but a baritone asked,
“What are you supposed to be? Or are you lost? For a fee, me and
mine’ll take you across town, where such as you belongs.”
So much for her disguise. Still, she was upon it now; she couldn’t
fret another night. She must find him. “I seek Ziru the Forerunner.”
Hoots and guffaws answered her.
“Too late for that,” one said.
“I’m a Forerunner, will I do?” rasped another over a crusty cup.
Then the baritone belonging to a hairy jaw said, “Yes, Lady
Angat. If your ladyship’ll come right this way…” He waved his fingers.
Several of his fellows smirked; one woman looked her up and down
and offered to service her for free, whatever that might mean.
Khebe had no choice but to traipse along behind this
apparently friendly man, hairy and scarred and stinking like
onion grass, who parted the crowd with his protruding belly and
reached back a huge hand for her to grasp. Behind her, someone
else said, “Keep moving.”
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These two guided her among the crowd, the stout baritone before
her, the other voice behind, and through a door at the rear of the bar.
Khebe nearly gasped the fresher air. Less than a dozen folk
huddled here, around a hewn rock that served as a table.
Her escort raised a hand, fist closed. “Ziru here? Census taker,
you want this?”
Then she saw Ziru among the crowd, lithe in loose pants and
open tunic.
He frowned and came toward her.
What had she done?
“I have her. I’ll get her back where she belongs, Mida. Take my
place, and the meal at it.”
Every eye in the open courtyard stared at her and through
her as Ziru came close and took her by the arm. “This way, now,
if you please.”
The mud-brick courtyard wall included an arched doorway she
hadn’t noticed. He slapped the latch and pushed open the door,
still holding her as if she’d flee.
Ziru pulled her through, closing the door behind them.
To her amazement, they stood alone in a hidden court amid a
grove of young fruit trees miraculously unharmed by the locust swarm.
Trees in Redoubt were rare and protected. This was remarkable, real
wealth among so many worthless tenements in a blighted canton.
“Now what are you doing here, Khebe? Trouble at home? A
rotter incursion in your bedroom? A fight with your parents? What?”
He did blame her. She knew that now. Her eyes filled with tears.
He still held her by the arm. She half folded, half fell against him;
her mouth met his salty naked breast. She was trembling. All this
time, she’d known what to say. Now she didn’t. “Ziru…”
“Hafod forgive me. Girl…” Then his lips were in her hair, his hands
under her cloak, and for a moment her dreams of him and reality merged.
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you haven’t got four other wives, yet… that I know of. I suppose
next you’ll tell me it was true love between you two.”
“Close enough, Watcher.”
“Tell me about this rotter, and why you couldn’t defend the
girl you say you loved.”
The Piraya’s voice came hoarse, from deep in his chest. “I’m
a census taker, remember? I don’t carry weapons at night. I heard
something. I was looking for a stick, a stone, a piece of metal,
anything. The rotter came down from above — you know the Stoat’s
back court — or dropped from those trees out back, and grabbed her,
too fast. I got Mida and some others; we looked for her, all along
the rooftops and in the streets. It didn’t drop her. It’s still got her,
as far as I know.” This time, Ziru’s voice shook. “So you might want
to tell her family. If you don’t want me to do it. Somebody should.”
“I warrant they know by now. She had to get all the way over to
the Stoat unmolested. Her servants know where she disappeared.
But none of her slaves saw you, did they?” Another dead Angat,
due to this Piraya boy. His mother would have been crushed.
“They waited out front. I saw none of them. None of them
saw us… saw me.”
“Thank Hafod. That’s something. Go to your quarters, change
into a decent uniform. Come back here straight away. Go nowhere
else. Talk to no one else. Make a list of who saw you with her. Bring
it here.” This one ached for justice for the girl and punishment
for his crime. Anittas would see to that, by and by. “Bring your
weapons, climbing gear. We’re going hunting for stolen Angat girls
and swift arboreal rotters.”
Anittas dismissed his new census taker with a disgusted wave
and no salute. The war-god Hafod had been canny: This Ziru
sparked trouble enough to topple the status quo, and some deserving
fools along with it.
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IS SHE REALLY dead? Khebe? Gone? Permanently dead? Or will she rise
again, the most beautiful rotter ever seen in Redoubt? Ziru wanted to
retch, but couldn’t.
She’d loved him, so she said. And he’d almost certainly got
her killed. Cruel death, but a real death brings peace. If she was
undead, his responsibility was clear: he’d hunt her down and kill
her. He needed to know. He had to find her.
As he readied himself to go searching for her with Anittas,
he thanked the war-god. Erok’s handful of oats on an abandoned
altar, and now Anittas himself would join the search for Khebe,
help finish her if it came to that.
And it must. But kill this girl, the only one ever to touch his
heart? Hunt her down like an animal — worse, like a revnant? Like
the revnant she might well be?
No one knew how long it took to become a rotter; sometimes
it happened quickly, sometimes not.
He got out his Forerunner panoply: his bronze single-edged
blade, his claw-headed war ax, his quilted linen. Anittas wouldn’t
mind. He’d need to be prepared. He even got his throwing spear
and sling; his leggings; soft boots, better than sandals for climbing.
Then he sat a moment on his census taker’s bed in the barracks
of the Eastgate stronghold of the Watch, waiting out the nausea
that overswept him.
He should have told Khebe that he loved her too. Now it
didn’t matter.
Or did it? He’d never been in love, if love this was. If what he
felt was love, why did anger rise in him, grabbing his throat?
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AND RED BREAD
NATANIA BARRON
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Wisaal’s hairless brow crinkled and she looked away, wiping the
snot from her nose with the back of her hand. “I don’t remember
him ever not being there. That’s why I wanted to… seek revenge.”
Bahara put out her bottom lip and shook her head. “But my
dear, dear friend. You should know that if you wanted revenge, you
only had to ask.”
“But how can you help?” asked Ugly Wisaal. “You’re just a
petty thief.”
Weave your lies with truth, and they will make the sturdiest cloaks.
“Meet me back here in an hour,” Bahara said, patting the cook
on the shoulder. “And we will run that man down to the flagstones.”
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house of his once beloved and catch her children running amok
or glance at her cheek as she passed the window.
Mahir was predictable. She was not. They were two moons in
orbit. Bahara made a habit of lying almost every day of her life.
Her lies were her bed, her comfort, her solace. She even lied to
herself. About not loving the boy down the street when she was
twelve, about not feeling remorse, about not feeling guilty about
lying. Lies upon lies.
Lies are our only commodity, her teacher had said. Learn them,
love them, and they will be your strength in the darkness.
Bahara lied to Mahir because it kept him safe. Because he was an
honest man who had spent most of his life crippled — for love! — and
he didn’t deserve to know. He thought Mahir worked in the sultaar’s
stables, which explained her typically bedraggled, often scratched and
bruised state. But her choice of the stables had to do with the fact
that he would never be able to access them. His legs simply would
not permit it, and no one would allow him — an apothecary of only
middling abilities — ever through the front door. Horses could enter
easily, but for the average person many stairs were required.
She was feeling quite stuffed with lies as she turned the corner
down their row, expecting to see the familiar yellow extinguished
from the shop. It was their dwelling and their place of work, their
beds threadbare hammocks strung in the back storage room, a small
kitchen fire that doubled as a cauldron base for Mahir.
But the fire was lit. It was early enough in the morning that
nothing but the moons shone, but that didn’t stop Bahara from
reaching for one of her knives. The hope was to get more of them at
home, slipping in and out before Mahir knew what had happened,
but that plan clearly was not going to come to fruition.
Bahara slowed her breathing and cleared her mind. There was
still the back entrance, and Mahir would be none the wiser if she
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The front door would be easier, then. She had at least ten
minutes.
UGLY WISAAL WAS late, but given her lack of general attention to
detail it didn’t worry Bahara. The kitchen was busy enough of a
place, and no one would notice anything out of the ordinary in the
hustle and bustle.
“I fell asleep,” the cook explained. “I’m sorry.”
Bahara wanted to make a snide comment, considering she only
managed a handful of hours of sleep in a given day, but she smiled
instead. Wisaal held an innate talent Bahara had to work years to
attain: invisibility.
“No need to apologize, my friend,” Bahara said. “I had business
to attend to, as it were.”
“You got everything you needed?” Wisaal asked.
“I took care of everything required,” Bahara replied, her throat
tightening. She had not told Wisaal that she was getting anything.
She had simply told her that she was to meet her in an hour.
“What does a woman need other than her own skill and luck to
exact revenge?”
Wisaal looked confused. “Must have been a dream, then,” she
muttered. “Thought you went to visit your brother.”
Bahara’s stomach could not have gone colder if someone had
poured ice directly into it.
Never let them in. Construct your cloak of lies and live in it so well
they never see the flesh beneath.
“Such a strange notion,” Bahara said. “If you’re too tired, Wisaal,
we can always do this another time. Surely there will be another
feast, another celebration in, what, a year? Ten years? If the meager
crops hold, if the walls do not crumble…”
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just any bread. It was still warm when Bahara pulled it out of the
eviscerated rat’s little paws.
Her teacher had provided extensive maps, but there was no
mention of tunnels in the ancient dwarven structure. And when
Bahara slipped one of the sultaar’s emblazoned buttons into her
teacher’s hand, there was a moment of surprise. Of wonder, even.
Bahara wouldn’t tell her teacher how she had managed it.
And a week later, her teacher was gone. Sometimes Bahara
wondered if she had dreamed it all. But then she laughed.
“We’re in the kitchens,” Wisaal said, looking around as the
ovens were being lit. “How do we—”
“Hush,” Bahara said. They had to get to the seventh oven before
it was lit. For the moment the morning servants were busy about
their work and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.
Rather than respond to Wisaal’s incoherent replies, Bahara just
took her by the arm and swung her back and around. Their backs
were now up against the old stones, blackened from years of fire
and smelling faintly of burnt bread. There were more than twenty
furnaces in the kitchens — Bahara once read that they had been
forges in ancient times — but never more than half were ever lit
these days. Unless it was a feast day. The seventh would be a roaring
inferno before long, and they would have to find another way out.
Wisaal was trying to say something, but Bahara shushed her.
The furnace lighters were coming closer, and they were going to
have to move the stone quickly. Which was difficult on even a good
day. On a day like today, where Bahara couldn’t rely on her fast
reflexes. She had the burden of Wisaal every step.
Wisaal was terrified. Their connection had not gone away, if
it truly was something beyond Bahara’s imagination. She shook
the nausea inducing notion to the back of her mind again and
proceeded to give the woman some real directions.
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Be ever the voice of reason, sharp and deliberate and cruel. Words
will do more than blades, and be ever harder to trace.
“Let’s climb,” Bahara said when Wisaal said nothing more.
She didn’t have to.
MISK DIDN’T LIVE on the same level as the princes, or any of the
royal family, though he clearly thought he deserved to. Bahara
had only run into the man a handful of times, never on purpose,
and mostly by way of hearing him speak to the kitchen staff. He
was in charge of all meals and festivities, but he fancied himself a
majordomo. From Wisaal’s stories, he was always groping the staff
and making disgusting jokes, mostly because it was something he
could get away with. He had proven himself somehow worthy to
manage the miscreants who founds themselves in his employ, and
his rule was absolute.
While Bahara had never killed someone outright, she had
whispered hundreds of deaths from the walls. That was her deadliest
trick. She learned their movements, followed them behind the walls
in her world away from the chaos of the sultaar’s palace. Her teacher
had taught her well, and Bahara had benefitted, and her employers
had benefitted. Her work was so clean they never asked her twice.
When they came out upon the third floor, where Misk would
be attending to the Sultaar’s son Iqbal and his exceptionally detailed
whims, Bahara was feeling rather proud of herself. Wisaal exuded
a perpetual sense of excitement and awe, and while the thief and
assassin had never quite imagined showing the cook her great
secret, now that she had she was certain it was the right decision.
Until the door behind her snapped unexpectedly, leaving Wisaal
in behind the walls and Bahara exposed in the middle of the bright
hallway, her shirt caught in the door like some novice cat burglar.
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family, but we do not have much time. Be brave, and cast away fear. You
were made for sterner stuff.
Wisaal smoothed her hands across the stone, looking with her
sense of touch by seeing nothing with her eyes. So far her thief
friend had not steered her wrong. When they took her friend they
took the light, and unlike her room at night, this was a darkness
almost impermeable.
The thief had told her how many steps she needed to go. How
many breaths to take, how to keep her nerves still.
She always had the right thing to say.
But it didn’t help so much now. Now that she understood what
had to be done. Doing this great feat with her lumpy, uncoordinated,
scarred body. This was not what she was made for. For baking bread,
yes. And stuffing pies. And hacking meat.
She was tired. Her back ached. Her feet throbbed. The thief
would die, or worse, she would live broken forever and…
Enough, Wisaal. Focus. Your enemy is only as strong as your worst
fear. So drain that fear of power.
Tell me how many stairs you have walked so far.
I am a hideous monster. I cannot do this.
How many steps?
I should have been first through the door.
But then I would have run away and left you to die and they would
have killed the sultaar, anyway. You made this magic that connects us,
and this is the price. How many steps?
Three hundred twenty six.
The cruelty of the magic. Wisaal had been given it. She had
done something great and powerful and worthy of song, made
true magic, wrought it from fear and desperation. But then she
had gone and broken her best friend. Her only friend. Her friend
who would have left her to die if the tables had been turned. Her
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I am no thief.
Perhaps not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t use a knife, or shouldn’t
if the opportunity arises. Come now, don’t be shy. I’ve seen you with the
butcher’s blade enough times to know you are perfectly capable of hacking
a carcass. Even if you don’t know what kind of meat it is.
It’s different when it’s dead already.
Not if you kill it fast enough, it isn’t.
There was no falling back now. Wisaal was afraid, but
disappointed, too. They were supposed to be enacting revenge upon
Misk. Hadn’t that been the plan? Now they were saving the Sultaar,
and Wisaal couldn’t help but regret the change of focus.
Bahara was silent, and quietly in the dark Wisaal selected her
weapon. Simple. Familiar.
A cleaver.
She could not see the details but the stone handle was smooth
from years of use.
Her use.
“You stole my favorite cleaver, three years ago,” she whispered
aloud.
Bahara did not reply.
THE THIEF DID not speak again until Wisaal stood before a doorway,
the final doorway. The entrance to the sultaar’s quarters. The edges
lit up against the ever pressing dark, a reminder that there was light
in the world, after all. Wisaal felt her heart leap with gladness,
though she would be walking straight into danger.
And yet the darkness had been a comfort, too. She had been
nameless and faceless for a time, a woman with a single purpose.
This is the heart of the sultaar’s chambers. It is the ante room, where
his lunch arrives and is taken by his guards to his bed.
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“My lord, I have served you for two decades now…” Misk said,
bowing and hiding his face.
“Yes, you have. Which is why I ask you to try these on my
behalf. To prove your loyalty,” the sultaar replied with a smile that
did not reach beyond his lips.
Misk shouted, lunged for the sultaar, spittle on his face. In his
progress he knocked Wisaal across the face, and she felt two of
her teeth crack.
But then the guards came, and the fight was over. Jaria died
more quickly than Wisaal would have thought , and at the Sultaar’s
hand. He snapped her neck as she begged for her life. He had been
prepared, Wisaal supposed, wiping more blood from her mouth.
Perhaps he was always prepared.
Power is the most valuable currency around, you know. A smart man
knows he borrows every breath he takes.
Thank you, Bahara.
The Sultaar bent down to take Wisaal’s hand. “Thank you. I
have a great debt to repay.”
“Iqbal…” Wisaal said.
“I know. You are not the thief in the walls, but I suspect you
know where he is?”
“She… she helped me. Told me where to go. Iqbal tried to
kill her.”
“We will send a surgeon, then. Once you are attended to.”
Wisaal’s wounds were cauterized, and then she followed the
guards to Iqbal’s chambers. She told them of the secret within
the walls, and how to use them to get throughout the castle. She
expected the sultaar would have them sealed for good. Had they
been dug? Had they even existed at all? Wisaal was too tired to
wonder. And glad to see her friend.
Iqbal was not in his chambers, but Bahara…
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“She’s been gone for quite some time,” said the surgeon. “Hours
at least. Poison and injury by the looks of it. I’m sorry for your loss,
Wisaal.”
He did not call her ugly.
Wisaal stared at Bahara’s face, so pale in death. Remembered
her voice.
“She was never mine to lose,” said Wisaal.
The clever thief never gives what she cannot take back. It is in such
a way that we remain strong, unbreakable. Until we die.
And then, let it be glorious.
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CHILD
OF DUST
JAYM GATES
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CHILD OF DUST
I SHOULD HAVE known she’d be gone when I got home from that
place. Should never have trusted them. All of those years, all of
those betrayals, how is it even possible that I believed in someone’s
goodness still? I should have known, and my daughter will pay
the price.
I am not making much sense, am I? Forgive me, the fear is
still too fresh.
I am here to warn you. To protect you from what my daughter
has become. But first, you must understand what she was.
I was three when my Angat era pierced her mark upon my
forehead. I was eighteen when she gave me to her daughter as gift
to celebrate the girl’s coming-of-age. And I was thirty when I gave
her daughter the first payment of my soul-price.
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THE STRANGE ONES bring out another cage, and release another
monstrosity. The light is dimmer this time, the response less extreme,
but still the tears and the calm. Again and again, they test it, until
the glow seems to reach a stable point that calms the aggression
and leaves the foul creatures responsive, even playful.
The corpses cluster around her, my precious girl, hanging on
her every gesture. Their rotting fingers touch her with a gentle
reverence. Unhinged jaws try to form words to admire her.
I have seen these things kill without mercy. We get so many
outbreaks in the city, they are the norm. Everyone has lost someone
to the Dead, seen the hunger with which they destroy anything
in their way. Magic and steel failed us. Faith failed us. Everything
failed us.
To find something, perhaps the only thing that renders the
ravenous Dead subdued… this is the only power that matters now.
And it rests in the hands of my child.
The circle begins to break apart, the elders approaching
cautiously. The Dead watch, curious, and reach out friendly decaying
hands to welcome their new friends. An elder shies away from the
stench and the creature deflates, cringing back and hiding behind
my little Ulena. She scowls at the strange one and pets her new
friend kindly.
One of the Dead resists, the first one she tamed, the one who
crouched at her side and wept. The men shepherding it shove it
forward into the crate. Just a nudge, but…
Have you ever met a child? Have you been subjected to its
whims, seen its mood swing from joy to rage for no reason at all?
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Have you denied one a treat, or hurt its feelings in some way? I
love my daughter, more than anything, but she did not grow up
in fear of punishment, and I perhaps treated her too permissively.
The soldier shoves the corpse, and my daughter’s mood turns
sour in the blink of an eye.
“No, you can’t keep the big black cow, Ulena. We can barely feed
ourselves, and I don’t know how to heal things, and he’s too big to even
get into our room!”
“I don’t care I want him he’s MINE, I don’t want you I want him,
you’re a horrible mama!” and everyone in the market was staring at her
now, and she would later remember the bull’s bellow of rage as it stood
over the little girl. It was only when Ulena fell asleep that the bull limped
off after its owner, looking confused.
Her shriek rises to ear-splitting levels, making the elders cower
back and clasp their hands over their ears. The Dead around her
rise to their feet and howl like dogs subjected to a high-pitched
whistle, with what hands they still have pressed over their own ears.
Then blood.
I hear the sounds of tearing cloth and flesh. I don’t want to look,
have no choice but to listen. They bring her pieces of the strange
ones, shredded meat and shattered bone, and gibber madly at her
when she screams.
They look around for something else to offer her, and find the
guards holding me. They bring me to her, and it is enough.
She flings herself into my arms, clinging, and the Dead celebrate,
dancing clumsily around.
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her to leave. More are gathering around her, called perhaps by the
rings, or else created by her disciples.
I do not know. All I know is that she is changing. Her moods
are darker, her joy restrained. She watches, as ever; watches as the
undead gather to her, too-old thoughts moving behind her too-
young eyes. Even if I could, I dare not remove the curse, for they’d
surely tear us to shreds.
They will come looking for me if I do not return soon. She
grows fretful if I am away too long, and her flock grows more
restless each time I leave, as though the rings fear some betrayal.
Tell those you love.
Your friends, your family. Warn the Watch… the Foresters…
anyone. Find someone who will listen. Find someone who will
descend into the forgotten cistern and see what grows there.
Someone who will level the passages and seal us inside, or burn us
before we can take the city.
Tell them the Dead are gathering in the dust.
Tell them there is always a price for freedom.
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OF BRIGHT
YESTERDAYS
JAMES LOWDER
E VEN IN THE fusty, cluttered gloom of the junk shop, the ceramic
dancer mesmerized. Elzbieta leaned close and traced the subtle
progression of colors from the figure’s pale gold hair to its yellow ochre
dress to the exotic brown and red whorls of the ground beneath its feet.
The last offered her the slightest glimpse of the Stormbreak Mountains,
or how an artist had seen the earth there a century or more past. By
Elzbieta’s estimate, the dancer had been slip cast at least that long
ago. Some older Venmir still practiced the technique, but the piece’s
colors were a revelation. They pushed back the shadows somehow.
She was certain of that now, just as she was certain she’d never seen
similar pigments elsewhere in the Downs. One more craft secret lost
to her people and, perhaps, the world, abandoned in the flight from
the Venmir ancestral home to the dubious safety of Redoubt.
Elzbieta took the dancer down from the shelf. It wasn’t very
large, but she always expected it to be lighter. Something concealed
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in them, so she carried her few valuables tied into a knot in her
shirttail. From this cache she produced three coins and a pair of
small white cubes — bone dice without pips gouged into them
yet. After a moment’s hesitation she took her knife from her belt
and added it to the pile. The steel blade was set in a bone handle
ornamented with a simple imagining of the temple-city of Venmah.
Elzbieta’s carving would never be mistaken for the work of a veteran
artist, but it was sincere. For practical purposes, the weapon was
nicely balanced and wickedly sharp.
“I can finish the dice so they fall on whatever numbers you
want,” she said.
“Can you make them so they vanish when someone reports me
to the Bone Cutter’s Guild for possessing wares fashioned by a scab?”
Elzbieta started to reply, to explain that the guild was considering
her application, but the junkman cut her off. “This wouldn’t be enough,
not even if the dice and knife were stamped with the guildmaster’s
personal mark. You waste my time like this again and you’ll never
have the thing, you hear me? I set my price last time you were here.
It’s final.” He gestured, indicating the rest of the shop with the flick
of one long-fingered hand. “You want something else in exchange
for the coins, maybe we can do a little deal.”
Most of Haluk’s business involved more practical merchandise:
rags and thread, scraps of wood and metal and bone, detritus to be
transformed into the stuff of a miserable day-to-day existence in
the most desperate neighborhood of a city cut off from the world
beyond its walls. Still, he would find buyers for the more exotic
items readily enough. The coins weren’t legal tender in Redoubt;
if the governments that had minted them existed at all, it was
only as shadows deformed by time and calamity. That gave them
sentimental value to many, while anyone in the Downs looking to
illustrate an improving fortune might want them for their novelty
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philosophies, but all anyone knew for certain was that death was no
longer final and the restless things that returned hated the living.
The small crowd surrounding the living dead man could see that
hatred on its face. It stared out at the shambles and its inhabitants
through blank white orbs, head bowed a little, mouth open in a
gaping scowl. It swayed as it looked around, like a man woken
abruptly from a deep sleep. Whenever the people close to it tried
to back away, the thing lurched forward and vomited a cloud of
black flies. The insects made no noise. Neither did the two children
huddled together directly before the swaying corpse — the man’s
daughters, Elzbieta guessed. Their screams were silenced by the
dead man somehow, like everything else closer than two bodies’
length remove. That realization held no surprise for Elzbieta. She
had witnessed rotters, as the risen things were known in the Downs,
that could climb smooth walls on limbs that bent the wrong way
and others that could be set aflame yet never burn. Some attacked
the living immediately, with relentless fury. Others took their time
before striking, as if wallowing in the fear they created.
Elzbieta was far enough away that she could move without
drawing the thing’s attention. By the time she heard the bells of
the Corpsemen sounding, she had already crept to an intersecting
alley and identified her escape route. She would be gone before
the armed disposal squad arrived. The Takers would be intent on
their target — the animate dead thing — and would collect it
even if their heavy blades claimed the lives of a few unfortunate
bystanders in the process. Best, then, to be somewhere else before
the carnage commenced.
She found herself anxious to get outside the stifling confines of
the hall. The skylights cut into the building’s roof were ingenious,
like so many dwarven creations, but they’d been at least partially
covered by leaves and grime that no one could be bothered to
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remove. The mirrors that had helped diffuse the light throughout
the building had been broken or pillaged long ago, too, so that
sunlight touched few areas of the hall directly and then only for a
few hours a day. It left the place shadow-wrapped and gray, where
the blazing sun did not bleach it white. Elzbieta strained to see
colors in the shacks or the people, but they’d all been bled away.
She was surrounded by a dead world peopled by skeletons in the
making. A holding area for the raw materials that would, sooner
rather than later, end up on her workbench.
Elzbieta squinted at the sudden bright sunlight and shaded her
eyes with one hand as she passed at last through the empty frame that
had once held the hall’s massive copper doors. They’d been removed
by the denizens of the Downs long ago, hammered thin and cut
apart for use in the construction of their shacks. As she descended
the front steps, though, she could see few fragments of the doors
worked into any of the nearby structures. The pieces were durable
enough that they attracted the unwelcome attention of thieves, so
they inevitably ended up in the hands of the scavengers’ leaders or
junkmen like Haluk. The few copper sheets still attached to the local
dwellings were signs of the occupant’s favor with one underworld
faction or another. The patron’s symbol appeared somewhere on the
piece, if you bothered to look closely enough, though it was generally
considered wise to assume that the patron was someone you wouldn’t
want to offend and move on without looking.
That’s what Elzbieta did as she threaded her way among the
hovels, past knots of quarreling thugs and traveling water merchants
hawking their wares. The water-sellers did enough business this far
from the river to justify carting their barrels along the narrow alleys,
and paying for the guards to keep the desperate from swarming
them and taking what they needed. She scarcely noticed the stink
as she overtook a waste hauler, collecting the only thing some of
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Izzeddin launched into a story about the old times, a short but
stirring epic chronicling his defense of a small desert caravan against
a much larger ghûl hunting pack. The fog typically clouding the
dwarf ’s mind seemed to part when he told one of his tales. Elzbieta
hesitated at first, reluctant to let something capture her full attention
in a public place like this, but despite her better judgment, she fell
under its spell. She sympathized with the dwarf ’s beautiful longing
for the time before the undead plague; the dancer in Haluk’s shop
spoke to the same longing in her. And once Izzeddin started his
telling, the bone cutter could feel them both traversing the distance
between the sad reality of the present and the heroic past. For a
time she dwelt there.
“Wonderful,” a familiar voice droned at the tale’s conclusion,
pulling Elzbieta back to the dry fountain and the square. She looked
up to find Mefody standing over her, a small, cloth-wrapped bundle
tucked under his left arm. The Ouazi woman at his side positioned
herself next to Mefody like a bodyguard, but it took Elzbieta a
moment to see the weapons she carried; a small dirk and a girga
hung at her belt. When the bone cutter tried to rise, the Ouazi
woman stepped forward, hand on her knife, and shook her head.
That was enough to make Elzbieta settle back onto the cobblestones,
though she now had one eye open for an escape route.
“You seem to be following me, Mefody,” she said.
“Perhaps I am,” he replied. “Or perhaps I saw my old friend
Izzeddin here and remembered that I had a message for him.” He
leaned close to the dwarf and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial
whisper. “I’ve heard that Karzhaddi is taking up a collection for
the least fortunate of your people.”
At the name of the reclusive dwarf rumored to be the leader
of the Nightcoats, Izzeddin straightened his ragged clothing, as if
for inspection, and dug into his pockets. “Ah, the little monsters
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robbed me. I had a few coins — wait, I still have something to give.”
The dwarf reached into his boot and came out with a grimy
water token, which he presented to Mefody with great ceremony.
“My thanks,” Mefody said, slipping the token into his purse.
He turned to Elzbieta and held out a hand. “Would you like to
donate something to a good cause? No amount too small.”
She stared for a moment his puffy, mushroom-white fingers,
stunned by his audacity. He was like something that grew up out
of the misery and decay in the Outer City.
“No?” he said. “Well, not everyone has Izzeddin’s generous
spirit, but you might want to reconsider. Even our mutual friend
Haluk opened his heart and — no, we both know that’s not true.
Let’s just say Haluk understood that generosity was more than its
own reward here. Say, his gift might interest you.”
He shifted the bundle from under his arm and carefully
unwrapped the contents. For a moment Elzbieta held her breath,
terrified that Mefody would pull the cloth back to reveal the Venmiri
dancer. “They’re Angat ritual tokens,” he said, holding up a small
glass jar containing three stone balls, one black and two white. “At
one time, they were used for membership votes in Angat secret
societies. The black one is supposed to bring dreadful bad luck,
though I’ve never believed in that sort of thing.”
The dwarf made a sign to ward off evil. Mefody gave the jar to
his bodyguard and held out a hand to help Elzbieta to her feet. She
stood without touching him. “I wasn’t being entirely honest just
now,” he said, deftly guiding her a few steps from Izzeddin. “The
Angat tokens are a gift I’m delivering from Haluk to the masters
of the Bone Cutter’s Guild. Do you think he is trying to smooth
your path to membership or…? Well, a black ball is a black ball,
even among the guilds.”
“Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?”
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contesting the bone cutter’s claim to the space. Dzaa was reportedly
a spiteful little god, so they were willing to let her draw its wrath,
if her continued presence displeased Dzaa, and unwilling to anger
the god, if her continued presence somehow pleased it. For her part,
Elzbieta wished that just once the unyielding stone would bend to
her body when she lay down to sleep and not the other way around.
Spectacular dreams washed over her the moment consciousness
fled. She saw Redoubt as it had been before the Rising, and the
temple-city of Venmah when her people still called it home. The
Battle of Slith played out across distant hills. The armies were like
toy soldiers moving through a diorama, and the slaughter and
the suffering were kept at such a remove that nothing about the
conflict alarmed her. It was all as it should have been, and should
be again, once the ceramic figure was hers and the dancer reclaimed
her place atop the Stormbreak Mountains. A vast army of dwarves
supplicated themselves before the dancer twirling on the peak,
their bent backs like scales armoring the mountainside, down and
down, even to the plain below. When Elzbieta looked again, the
dancer was once more a motionless ceramic figure, resting on an
outstretched palm, now the clawlike hand of Haluk, now the pale
and bloated hand of Mefody.
Elzbieta awoke bathed in sweat and gasping for breath. When
her coughing subsided, she huddled in the darkness, cursing her
powerlessness and fighting back angry tears. Several hours still
remained before dawn when she finally slipped her knife into her
belt and started for Haluk’s.
She had learned long ago to move quickly and with purpose
through the twisted alleys of the Downs, so anyone watching her
would think she had someplace pressing to be — and, perhaps,
someone waiting for her. There was nothing more dangerous in
the slums than to be seen as alone. This was especially true in the
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small hours of the morning, when most of the people skulking from
shadow to shadow did so with ill intent. After she made her way
through the gaping, empty portal to the hall, wound through the
warren of shacks, and came at last to the junkman’s shop, the bone
cutter realized that she had more in common with those sneak
thieves and cat burglars than she might want to admit.
The front door to Haluk’s shop was locked, but it didn’t take
long for Elzbieta to find another way in. The board that had shaken
loose from the side of the building still lay where it had fallen,
and the hole it left was large enough for her to crawl through. The
shop was dark, but Elzbieta had come prepared. She listened until
she was certain the junkman was sleeping in another room, then
lighted a small taper and made her way to her grail.
Haluk had returned the dancer to its shelf. She took it down
and let its reassuring weight steady her trembling hand. She didn’t
dare look at it until she was back to the hole in the wall and ready
to make her escape. Only then did she pause to study the figure
in the candlelight.
Now that the dancer was finally hers, its colors did not seem
so remarkable. She saw them as they were; the pigments had been
applied cleverly enough, but they were nothing special.
She felt a chasm open in her chest. The gaping emptiness
swelled. It swallowed her heart and the light of the taper, the dancer,
and everything else. Elzbieta stood at the center of the void, holding
back a scream. Her throat constricted.
The first hacking exhalation doubled her over, and both the
taper and the figure slipped from her grasp. She heard the crash of
the ceramic shattering on the stone floor only distantly, through
her gasping coughs. She collapsed to her knees. In the light from
the guttering taper, ghostly and shifting, Elzbieta stared without
comprehension at the fragments spread around her. A dark, solid
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lump lay at the center of the ruin. After a time, she understood
that the humped base had exploded. Gasping more softly now, she
reached for the thing that had given the figure its weight.
A stone. The treasure hidden within the base had been a
common stone.
Elzbieta turned it over in her hand, examining it from every
side. She spotted the guild stamp just as she heard the trap door
creak open. Like all the other crafters in Redoubt, the forgers
marked their work. They just hid the mark well.
“If you’re a thief, I have the protection of the Coats,” Haluk
shouted. He was still ducked below the level of the floor. The light
from his olive oil lamp shone up through the open trap.
Elzbieta got slowly to her feet. Her body throbbed with the
terrible blankness inside her.
“If that’s you, Mefody, at least give me a day or two to get you
the extra money, you greedy bastard.” Haluk crept up a few steps
and peered into his shop. “Well, well,” he said when he saw the
bone cutter. A familiar leer twisted his lips as he crawled up the
rest of the basement steps. “Ain’t it a crime…”
Reflexes honed by years surviving in the Downs prompted
Elzbieta to draw her knife as Haluk came close, and it was reflex
prompted her to slash at his outstretched hand when he reached
for her. His scream did not penetrate the void surrounding her, but
something else did. When Elzbieta held up her bloodied knife in a
defensive stance, the colors caught her eye and expanded to fill the
emptiness within her: the white of the bone handle, the silver-gray
of the blade, the crimson of the freshly spilled gore. These colors
were true, and they were hers. With them, she might paint a future.
Wordlessly, she tackled the man and set to work expanding
her palette, at first with all the subtle shades of red her blade could
uncover, and then, as the achingly slow hours dragged on until
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daybreak, with every other hue and tint that she could wring from
the doomed junkman.
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DAMIEN ANGELICA WALTERS
she swings one leg up, uses it to pull her body entire. Once atop
the wall, she gets to her feet, brushing the grime from her hands
and adjusting the strap of her empty satchel.
In the shadows, Redoubt bears a strong resemblance to a
midden heap. The Inner City, home to the wealthy and the men
in charge of governing all, is nestled against the mountain; the
Outer City, home to the men and women struggling to put food
in their bellies and clothing on their backs, spills out in chaos, and
empty ground stands between it and the wall. And beyond the
wall? A world of natural riches, of olive groves, and streams that
flow freely. Air that smells not of the press of too many bodies in
too small a space. Perfect, save for the Dead who claim it as their
own. They would claim Redoubt, too, if not for the wall protecting
it. Ona suspects that one day they will, but she’s careful not to say
such a thing to her father.
“Does your da know you’re out here again?” a sentry asks.
Ona nods at Ade. “Of course.” She stretches her arms high.
Flexes fingers and toes. There’s room enough at the top of the wall
for two sentries to pass each other side by side without touching.
Room enough to fight and kill, if need be.
She looks out across the land beyond the wall. “Anything?”
she asks.
Ade shakes his head. “Naught for a few days and even then, it
was only one, mostly rotted and slow.”
She nods but pans her gaze from side to side. No movement,
save the tree branches. “I won’t be long.”
“Olives?”
“Aye, want some?”
“If you can spare a few.”
She nods again.
“You’ll make a fierce Forester one day.”
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A twig breaks, the sharp snap bright and loud, and Ona freezes
in place. Slowly, she slides her olivewood spike from the sheath on
her back and scents the air. There, a faint kiss of decay. Not too close,
but not far enough away for her liking either. What would she do
if her mum stumbled out of the wood now with arms outstretched
and teeth gnashing with hunger?
Ona fingers her spike. Like it or not, she’d do what was needful.
A spike might not be enough to fully destroy one of the Dead —
only cremation or rendering is capable of that — but the spike can
be used to cripple all its limbs, making certain the rotter is incapable
of pursuit. Ona’s never done it, but she knows how. Still, it’s no
easy task and, even then, only one of last resort, so she finishes her
work quickly and heads back for the wall, casting glances over her
shoulder all the while. Are you out there, Mum? she thinks.
Are you dead or are you Dead?
INSIDE THE WALL, the city curves to meet the open land as the white
of a toenail joins the pink. Her neighborhood takes up one small
corner, separated on all sides by an alleyway. Stories say there were
two brothers who didn’t get along, but in order to keep peace with
their mother they kept their houses close, yet dared to make the
space between them wider than was customary, and as the city grew,
people kept the width of the alley the same. Da says the story isn’t
true, that the width is due to a natural delineation in the ground.
No matter the truth, the alleyway allows for easy travel from one
end of the neighborhood to the opposite side.
Although the alleyway, and not home, is her destination, Ona
winds her way between the houses, through passageways too narrow
for two people to pass by without turning sideways, and woe to the
unwary if you pass a pregnant woman or someone with laden arms.
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“I will.”
Ona watches them walk away, noticing the nods and respectful
distance everyone gives them. Without the Foresters to find and
fetch supplies from beyond the wall, the city would’ve consumed
itself by now. “Down to the bone and into the marrow,” Mum was
fond of saying.
The loud bells of the Corpsemen clang and Ona shivers. She hates
their caged carts and the bodies within, knowing what the Takers will
do to them. The dismemberment and destruction may be necessary
to prevent them from rising as the Dead, but necessary doesn’t mean
pleasant. The bells are the only sound that haunts her nightmares, the
only sound she can’t ever ignore. They clang again, and Ona races home.
AFTER FEEDING THE goats and preparing the olives for curing, Ona
opens her satchel. Lorin gave her two peaches, large and unbruised.
She smiles and sets them aside on the larder shelf inside. Her da’s
voice rings outside as he bids farewell to his apprentice, Rase, and
then ducks through the entrance of their one-room home. It’s
small but as clean as they can possibly keep it, and unlike many,
they keep their chamber pot outside.
“Good day?” Ona asks.
He nods. “The traps were all full, and we even caught a few of
the bigger ones. You?”
She shows him her haul of olives. “And I saw Lorin in trader’s
row, and she gave us two peaches. Good ones, too, no soft spots.”
“A good day, then?” He lifts one eyebrow.
“Aye, the woods were quiet.”
His eyes get the faraway look they hold whenever he thinks
of Mum, but he doesn’t say anything aloud. What would he say,
anyway? What’s done is done. The gone are gone.
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aside. She finds him hunched over, a cloth to his mouth, in the
narrow walkway that leads to the goat pen, the rat cages, and
the tanning yard.
She keeps just out of sight, listening to the cough — wet and
thick and coming from deep in his chest. Much stronger than a
cough from breathing in rat guts. When he finally quiets, she softly
clears her throat.
He startles and curls his hand around the cloth. “What are
you doing awake, girl?”
“I heard you coughing.”
“So much for coming outside to keep from waking you, eh?”
“Are you all right? And no more rat gut rubbish, if you please.”
Her da smiles and tousles her hair. “A bit of a cold come early
in the season, I think. Naught more than that.”
He coughs again, a little softer this time, but his breath wheezes
when the cough ends. She catches her lower lip between her teeth.
“I’ll go see Emarin tomorrow and get a poultice for your chest.”
“No need of that. It will pass.”
“Aye, but the poultice will help ease the cough while it does.”
He turns away, wiping his mouth with the cloth. “You sound
like your mum.”
“She was a smart woman.”
“She was. Fine, if you want to get a poultice, I won’t stop you.”
“And will you use it?”
He stifles another cough. “I will.”
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the wall, but this summer was neither overly wet nor terribly dry.
She scratches her head. They aren’t the typical dry coughs from
smoke fires and dirt dust; they sound as if people have throats full
of porridge. Later in the year, near the first snowfall, she’d expect
to hear such a thing. Now, it seems odd.
She replays her visit to Emerin. The woman ushered her in,
gave her the poultice, and sent her back on her way with almost no
conversation, just a few nods and half-to-herself mutters. Naught
unusual there, except instead of making Ona wait while she made
the poultice, she had it at the ready, as though she knew someone
would be paying her a visit. But remedies were the herbwoman’s
stock in trade, so she’d like as not have them ready, wouldn’t she?
A simple explanation, and her da likes to say that the simple
truth is almost always the right truth, unless it’s a political matter,
but Mum always said to trust her gut.
And her gut doesn’t like what she hears.
SHE WAKES IN the middle of the night again, but to whispering, not
a cough. Three voices, one of which belongs to her da. The words
aren’t quite loud enough for her to make out, yet the urgency and
worry is clear. When her da returns, questions linger on her tongue
but she feigns sleep. For the now, it seems the wisest thing to do.
ON THE OPEN land between city and wall, Ona runs. While she
can’t begin the Forester training until her sixteenth name day, Mum
told her the best way to make certain she was prepared was to
train herself beforehand. More than half the people who join the
Foresters drop out before the training is complete; many others
make it nearly to the end only to wind up with broken bones or
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infections. They’re all allowed to return later and try again if they
wish. Most do not.
Thighs and calves aching, Ona pushes herself to run faster.
Back and forth, side to side, touching the ground each time she
turns in another direction.
You must run faster than you think you can, and then run even faster.
Speed can save your life.
It didn’t save you, Mum, Ona thinks. Not in the end. But the
truth is, they don’t know exactly what happened. Her mum’s team
was racing back to the wall, barely outrunning a small pack of
rotters, and they heard her shriek… but no one saw her fall. When
they went back to check the next day, they found no blood, no torn
clothing, no hair, no dropped weapons. But if she lived, why didn’t
she come back? There was no reason for her to stay away and every
reason to return. And why had no Forester seen her as a rotter
since? As such, they could only declare her dead, but not Dead.
Ona’s heel slides on a pebble and she goes down hard, skinning
her palms. With a grunt, she gets back to her feet, breathing hard.
Luckily, she didn’t tear a hole in her breeches. A muscle in her calf
seizes painfully, a sign that she’s pushed too hard, so she heads back
to the city, passing first the adjoining neighborhood, then her own.
Ten paces in, she stops and heads back to the dividing line, her head
cocked. The adjoining neighborhood is filled with raucous laughter,
some tainted with casual cruelty, some with genuine mirth. She
hears shouts and arguments — heated bartering, no doubt, and
the steady hum of civil conversation. But when she advances again
toward her neighborhood, the noises fall. There are gaps where
sound, where voices, should be, and in their place, she hears the
muffled catch of coughing. She rubs her hands together, wincing
at the sting of forgotten wounds.
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WHISPERS AGAIN IN the middle of the night. This time, she hears
the words render, the Watch, bones, and careful. When her da comes
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back inside, she lights a small lamp, and he stops in his tracks.
“Da? What’s going on? Please, I know something is and you’ve
got to tell me.”
He huffs out a breath. “Damn your ears. I should’ve known better
than to talk about it nearby. You are definitely your mother’s child.”
“What’s wrong?”
He sinks down on his pallet and runs a hand through his hair,
avoiding her eyes. “People are sick. A few more than usual.”
A few? Ona bites back the words before they creep out.
“But you needn’t worry. Everything will be fine. People are
taking precautions, that’s all. Staying inside more. Poultices and
the like.”
He smiles, but Ona doesn’t like the look of it. It’s too big, for
one thing. Too cheery, as though they’re speaking of threadies and
olives instead of illness, and he has shadows beneath his eyes that
aren’t an effect of the flickering light. And sickness has naught to
do with bones and rendering.
“I’m not a child anymore, Da. You can tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. Now put out the light so we can both go
back to sleep.”
She does, but she stares into the shadows for a long time.
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In the bright sunlight, she can see that his skin is ashen, his
movements slow, and he pauses now and again to either cough or
spit into another cloth. She steps back, out of sight, and makes her
footfalls heavy on her return. When she kisses his cheek, his cheek
is too warm. There are no fresh wounds on his hands or forearms
— the simple truth is always the right truth, she thinks — and the
cloth feels like a weight in her pocket. She can’t find the words to
ask; instead she asks, “Where’s Jase?”
“He’s helping his da with something today.”
He averts his eyes when he speaks. Coughs again.
“If you want to lie down, I can take over for a bit.”
He looks up from the skin he’s scraping. “I’m fine enough to
work, girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure enough.”
“Mayhap I’ll go see Lorin before I run. I’ll take some of the
cured olives and see if she has any more peaches.”
“No, not today. I want you to stay close to home. And no
climbing over the wall, either.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Mind me now, girl.”
His words are sharp and Ona’s own dissolve in her throat.
“Here, you can help me. Grab another rat and the gutting knife.”
She wants to argue, but one look at his colorless face and she
grabs a rat instead, wincing at its still warm but lifeless body.
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emerges into the space, empty of people, carts, and produce, she
stands with her elbows cupped into her palms.
A chill dances down her spine when she begins to walk its
length. On the far side, people are going about their business, but
more than one has a cloth tied over their mouth. One woman
carrying a basket of mended clothing catches Ona’s gaze. The
woman shakes her head hard and casts her eyes to the left. Ona
begins to approach her; the woman shakes her head even harder
and scurries away.
The chill turns to ice water in her veins as a man wielding a
crude spear steps in the space the woman vacated. Although he’s
pressing a cloth to his mouth, his eyes hold a steady resolve. But
beneath it, fear. Fingers trembling, Ona spins on her heels and
ducks into the nearest passageway, but she feels the weight of the
man’s gaze even when she falls out of sight and breaks into a run.
Her da isn’t in the tanning yard as she expects. He’s inside,
awake, but seated on his pallet, his skin the color of mother’s milk.
When he sees her, his eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”
“Trader’s row is empty, and I saw a man with a spear and his
mouth covered.”
His hands clench into fists. “Stay here. I mean it.”
He’s gone before she can reply, and remains gone long enough
that she’s on the verge of leaving the house to try and find him when
he finally returns. He sinks down on his pallet, his face shadowed.
“What’s wrong, Da?” She crosses her arms over her chest, stands firm.
“Fine,” he says, pointing to her own pallet. “Sit.”
When she does, he looks down at the cloth in his hands for a
long time before speaking. “It’s wet lung. A sickness,” — he touches
his chest — “here. Trader’s row is empty so it won’t spread anywhere
else. And the man with the spear… well, people are afraid. Wet
lung spreads quickly.”
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“So why don’t I have it? I’ve been around you and you’re sick.”
He nods. “Aye, but not everyone gets it. A lot do, but not
everyone.”
“How long will it take for it to go away?”
An unbearable silence stretches like a rat’s unspooled intestine.
“Da?”
“We don’t know. But until it does, you must stay close to home.”
“But—”
“No arguments. Now come help me in the yard. We’ve rats
to skin.”
UNDER THE COVER of darkness, with her father snoring deeply, Ona
slips from their house and climbs to the top of the wall. Ade is
standing with his arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable.
“Olives,” she says, the word more of something to fill the quiet
than an explanation.
“Not tonight,” he says, taking a step back.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t let you down tonight. Go back home,” he says.
“But, I—”
“Go back, Ona.” He rests his hand on the cudgel hanging at
his belt. “Now.”
With slow steps, she returns home. Ade’s never turned her
away. Not once. She creeps into the house as quietly as possible,
but as soon as she does, her da lights the lamp.
“Where were you?”
“I went to climb.” She swallows hard. “But Ade wouldn’t let
me over the wall.”
His face darkens and when he speaks, his words are sharp.
“Dwarves’ blood, girl, I thought I told you no climbing. I thought
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ONA HELPS HER da in the yard, cares for their goats, and tries not to
grumble too much. The days pass slowly. Her da’s cough continues.
From time to time, other neighborhood men come to see him, and
they speak of the illness. More people are sick, but she wouldn’t
need to hear them say it to know it for truth; the days and nights
are filled with coughing and muffled crying.
HER DA’S PALLET is empty when she wakes. She walks to the yard
and stops when she sees him in the company of three other men.
“We can’t hide it anymore,” one man says. “The—”
Seeing Ona, he falls silent.
“Ona, go back inside,” her da says.
She nods, but takes her time and hears the man when he
continues. “The Corpsemen know, and not a one of them will trade
payment for silence. How long do you think we have?”
“They wouldn’t. We’ve quarantined ourselves,” her da says.
“It may not be enough.”
“I’m telling you they won’t.”
“Don’t be a fool, Matin. They’ll do what they want.”
When the men leave, Ona returns to the yard.
“You were listening,” her da says.
“Aye. What did he mean, the corpse men know?”
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THE CRY IS high and sharp, cut off almost as quickly as it rises in
the air, but Ona, halfway to sleep, is instantly alert. She sits up as
her da shakes her arm.
“Wake up, girl.”
“I’m awake. What’s wrong?” Shouts rise in the distance, followed
by screams. “What’s happening, Da? What is it?”
“You have to go. Now. Put on your leathers.”
The bells of the Undertaking clang, but they can’t conceal the
cries of pain.
Ona scrambles into her clothes. “What are they doing?”
“What they think needs to be done to keep the sickness from
spreading.”
She hears an animal bleat, a child shrieking, “No!” A woman
calling out for them to stop, to please stop.
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“Are they—”
“Aye. Move it, girl.” He grabs her threadies, thrusts them toward
her, and starts tossing provisions in her satchel.
“Where will we go?” she asks, beginning to tie her laces.
“I’m not going anywhere. You are.”
Ona pauses. “No. No, Da. I won’t leave you here. I can’t.”
“You have no choice.” He bends down and ties the laces on
her other threadie.
“But not everyone is sick.”
“Listen.” He points toward the doorway. Another scream pierces
the night, cuts off at its apex. “Do you think that matters? If you
stay, they’ll kill you.”
“But if you stay—”
He presses two fingers against her lips. “Quiet. I’ll hide, I’ll be
fine.” She sees the lie in his eyes, sees that he knows she does, too.
He drapes the satchel across her body and hands her the sheathed
olivewood spike, a blade, and a cudgel.
“Da?”
“Take them all. You might need them.”
“I won’t.”
“You do what you need to do. Find Lorin, if you can. If not,
find someplace to hide until it’s over. You’re not sick and the city
is so big, no one will know where you came from.”
She folds into his arms, sobbing, her fingers clutching his
nightclothes tight. “Da, I’m scared.”
He kisses her forehead, pushes her away. “I know, but you’re
smart and you’re fast. I know you’ll be okay. I love you, my girl.
Now and always. Remember that.” He glances out the door and
pulls her outside. “Now go. The way is clear.”
Fighting tears, she creeps into the passageway, moving as
quickly and as quietly as possible between the houses. She looks
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back, but her da has already gone back inside. Tears course down
her cheeks and she wipes them on her sleeve.
She doesn’t even make it halfway to the alley when she hears
soldiers. She takes a deep breath and peeks around the corner.
Soldiers with spears, their faces grim. She hears the unmistakable
sound of a cudgel thumping against a skull and shudders.
She can’t get to the alley, which means she can’t get to Lorin,
and she can’t stay here. Not if she wants to live. She slips back into
the shadows, scrubs her face with her hands. What if she goes back
home? If the soldiers try anything, she can fight. She can protect
herself, and her da, too.
She hears another scream, another wet thump. The tears return,
and for a moment, she can’t move, can barely breathe. Finally, a
too-close shout breaks the spell.
There is someplace she can go. Someplace she knows well
enough. She swallows a laugh that tastes bitter and hollow; death
or Death isn’t much of a choice.
She runs back through the passages, crouching low. The smell
of blood is thick in the air, the echoes of screams even thicker. She
pauses at the edge of the open field. Even though shrouded in
shadows, it seems wider, bigger. She’ll never make it. Never.
A wavering scream pierces the night. Ona presses her lips
together tight and, keeping as low to the ground as possible, she
races across the open land. The taste of dread is sharp and biting
in her mouth. She waits to hear a soldier’s shout, the sound of
footsteps, feel the weight of a cudgel or the point of a spear, but
the city’s decision to conceal the bloodshed under cover of night
serves her well.
She reaches the wall and her knees buckle, but there’s no time
to rest now. No time for worry or fear. She climbs, not stopping to
remove her threadies. The way is harder and slower, she bites back
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a curse as the soles slip on the stone, and her forearms ache when
she swings her legs over the top.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a harsh voice says.
She scrambles to her feet. “Ade, it’s me, Ona.”
He holds up a hand, steps back. “Go back, girl.”
“Do you know what they’re doing? What they’re going to do
to my da? What they’ll do to me?”
He says naught. Touches the cudgel hanging from his belt.
“I’m not sick.”
More screams carry through the air and Ade winces. Ona
scratches her shoulder, her fingers near the spike’s end. Do what
you need to do, Da said. But can she? Another scream, a shout, a
child shrieking for its mum. The bells of the Corpsemen clang.
Her back straightens.
“You won’t have a chance out there.” Ade says. “You won’t make
it a fortnight.”
“I don’t have a chance in here, either. Out there, maybe I will.
I can stay out just long enough for the worry to pass, then come
back. No one will know but you. I’m fast and I have good ears,
and you can always smell the rotters. Even the fresh ones stink. I
won’t have to stay out there too long. Please, let me at least have
the chance. And if the worst happens…” Her hand tightens on the
spike. “At least the Dead don’t kill each other.”
He winces again and turns away. “If you’re going to go, do it
quick.”
With her heart racing madness she descends, and at the bottom,
pauses to scent the air. No decay. No movement in the darkness.
She’ll be quiet, she’ll be careful, and she’ll be fast.
She’ll be faster than her mum ever was.
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OF EXILE
C.A. SULEIMAN
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wares are generally worth both the trouble and the wait, and has just
leaned against a stiff post under a ratty but shade-worthy awning
when the two dwarf men walk by. Like many dwarves, they bear
the marks of their forced servitude: twin studs in each ear, facial
hair aplenty, no weapons. Like many dwarves, they opt to speak
their own tongue when in conversation with each other.
And like many dwarves, they don’t know that Q’teeb has spent
the previous four years learning their language to the best of his
ability — that he is now nearly fluent in the dwarven lingual
mode. He realizes he’s heard the word before, in passings similar
to this one, but could never parse out what it meant. Context
never seemed to help, even when he thought he grasped the gist
of dialogue’s flow.
Q’teeb approaches the two men, hands out and palms up, the
city-wide signatory for unarmed and peaceful intent. Nonetheless,
he is a human man and they are dwarven slaves, and thus both fall
silent and guarded as they turn dour faces his way.
“Apologies for intruding,” he says. “May I trouble you with a
question before you go about your business?”
The slaves don’t reply, but neither do they turn away. Q’teeb
presses on.
“This word, Çellintojek. What does it mean?” When the two
dwarves look at each other warily, he adds, “I ask only for myself.
I am blessed enough to call no man erus and will do you no harm.”
A look of dawning awareness falls across one slave’s face, and
he whispers something to the other in their native language. To
Q’teeb’s ears, he thinks he makes out the words “brother,” “killer,”
and “exiled.” The mask of blooming apprehension spreads like a
contagion to the other dwarf ’s face.
In the tongue of his oppressor, the first slave says, “Çellintojek
is what has become of our home. A new word for a new reality. It
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“DID YOU GET them?” His father’s voice is harsh, thick with the
years and heavy with impatience.
“Yes, father,” says Q’teeb, as he moves past the older man in the
doorway and into the sparseness of the modest room beyond. As if
accustomed to always having to prove his word good, he swings the
pack from off his back as he walks and sets it atop a wooden table
with one uneven leg. The table wobbles angrily when he unfastens
the pack’s ties to present its contents for inspection.
His father, who looks very much like an older and whiter version
of himself, shuffles across the wood-plank floor toward him. The chief
difference between father and son is that where Q’teeb’s eyes are deep-
set, but rich and dark with color, his father’s eyes are bulging scrims
of milky cataracts. Unable to distinguish beyond sprays of light and
dark, his father sees primarily by laying his hands upon things, and he
does so now, sifting through each item in the pack as if for inventory.
“I don’t see them here…” he mutters, digging one arm down
into the depths of the sack.
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hide pouch he has secreted away there, and this he clutches to his
chest as he shuffles his sightless way back to the table and to Q’teeb.
“Take this, too,” he instructs. Sitting atop his outstretched palm
rests a coiled lump of leather. “Not for Nekba, but for the tribal
warden in Aurib-Naa. For Maloufi.”
When Q’teeb recognizes the object, he shakes his head defiantly.
“That’s not needed, father. They’ll let me through without it.
Please… do not give them your falconer’s blind. Grief enough
your sight is taken from you, Nekba from us both. We need not
compound tragedy by giving up our past.”
For the first time, his father’s countenance softens, the ruddiness
draining from his face. “Son… this is the best we can hope for,
not the worst. If our plan finds success, it will mean your making
this trip many times; not just once, tonight. And that kind of
arrangement with Maloufi requires sacrifice. This is something I
know he desires. Think of it as the pendent seal pressed into our
agreement with the house of the moon god.”
“Baba…” Q’teeb sighs.
“Do not ‘baba’ me, you ungrateful goat. Take the blind, and
with it do your duty.”
As usual, his father’s words are harsh.
As usual, buried somewhere deep inside them, there is love.
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MADE ON FOOT, the trek from the Southgate, where the Kolobus
River exits the Inner City, down to Aurib-Naa would take so long
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The warden arrives not alone, bearing the mien of a man ready
to welcome a fellow tribesman over a warm cup of dollroot tea
or maybe goat’s milk, but in the company of two figures whose
manner of expertise is visibly martial in nature. The man with
Maloufi is clearly fairouk, an Ouazi social and military tradition
going back centuries. Each fairouk is a master of not merely the
Ouazi cultural weapon, the girga, but also the art of the moving
body form. During the Second Ascension a common-held view
was that there were none so quick nor as dangerous unarmed as
an Ouazi fairouk. (Apart from an elf, that is; but then, during that
era the entirety of the known world lagged behind the elves in
almost every meaningful way.) It’s said that they are so fast and
adroit with their double-slings that they use them to success even
in the heat of melee, and that wounds inflicted by a girga up close
are even more deadly than those diluted by distance.
The woman with him is no fairouk, but based on appearances
and on her presence here in such a role, Q’teeb is certain that she is
a member of the Nerouza, the Ouazi sister tradition to the fairouk.
More formalized in their structure, the order of the Nerouza focuses
on rigor, in everything from diet to training. Each is an expert with
the longdagger, using it as both ranged threat and as her weapon of
choice hand-to-hand, and girls who join the Nerouza take solemn
initiatory vows in which they “give children to the moon,” indicating
a willing sacrifice of their childbirthing potential in pursuit of their
duties. When the matter of repopulating the race came to the fore,
the sultaar officially disbanded the Nerouza within the Inner City,
but here stands proof that Aurib-Naa never broke with tradition.
They stand guard to a man who simultaneously looks exactly
as Q’teeb was expecting and not at all akin to that expectation.
He stands shorter than either of his aides, but of average height
for Ouazi men. His hair is an oily black and his large round eyes
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THE SENSE OF EXILE
carry undertones of yellow that remind Q’teeb of the big cats who
according to his father once prowled the Eternal Sea. Like most
Ouazi alive today Q’teeb has never been to the ancestral home of
his people. Sometimes he wonders if he ever will.
The young tribesman rises to his feet and offers his host a
shallow bow.
The tribal warden dismisses the gesture with a magnanimous
smile and points to another bench across the narrow table from
Q’teeb. “Let us sit together right here, you and I.”
Q’teeb obliges, and as the other man gets settled, begins.
“Blessings of Aurib be upon you. Warden, we thank you for—”
“How is your father?” When Q’teeb’s expressions startles at the
question, the warden leans forward, rests his elbows on the tabletop,
and laces his fingers together in front of him. In the moments before
Q’teeb’s mind can form a proper response, it seizes the opportunity
to remark at how the warden’s pose is identical to the one that most
Angat assume just before taking in a meal.
And then the words come. “He is very well, warden, thank
you for asking.”
“So your name is Q’teeb. Did you know that you are named
after the greatest falconer of the first age of men?”
Q’teeb nods. “I do. My father is very proud.”
“And yet… you have never seen a black falcon, let alone flown
one. Have you.”
Q’teeb doesn’t like the feel of where this is going, but he is not
about to be impolite. Not here. Not tonight. “I have not had the
pleasure, warden.”
This man Maloufi leans back away from the table and crosses his
arms over his chest. “And how would you, of course, being forever
locked up behind the walls of a wayward dungheap like Redoubt.”
Q’teeb is no one, politically speaking, and does not begin to
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THE SENSE OF EXILE
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C. A . SULEIMAN
FROM THE PAVILION, Q’teeb is taken by escort all the way to the
back of the village, to the outer wall, where his conveyance awaits.
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Although the outer wall and its defense are concerns for the
entire city, the section of the wall that marks the western border
of Aurib-Naa is left largely to the Ouazi to monitor and maintain.
This section sits more or less halfway between the two nearest
city strongholds along the outer wall (at the Mountain Gate and
the River Gate), which makes the Ouazi guardtower at the top a
great boon to city defense. Since this guardtower sits atop no exit
through the wall, the Ouazi maintain a “liftgate” — in effect a
muscle-powered shed that rises from the dirt floor of Aurib-Naa
to the top of the wall.
Two bare-chested men stand on either side of the wood-and-
stone construction and turn massive winches, which thus turn
massive wheels, which in turn haul the liftgate steadily up the wall.
As it rises into the darkness above with him ensconced inside, Q’teeb
wonders what life has been like for his sister since he was forced to
watch her escorted, crying, beyond the outer wall at blade-point.
He and his father sent her off with as many key tools and supplies
as they could load her up with, but it has been weeks since that fateful
day. The agreement was that even if she was faring well enough on
her own (a possibility, given the recent lull in sightings of the Dead
along the wall itself ), that she would keep this date with her brother;
that she would meet him beyond the wall on this night, take the
supplies he brought for her, and share with him the things their father
wanted to hear. While he had bribed one of the outer sentries to
keep an eye out for her along the western run of the wall, he didn’t
do so expecting much in the way of a return, and his expectation
in that was borne out. There has been no sign of her for some time.
Still, Q’teeb knows that she is strong, and remains full up on
hope, excited to see her again.
At the top of the wall he is greeted by Ouazi guardsmen,
themselves happy to see another face. As he pulls the rope and
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C. A . SULEIMAN
climbing spikes from his pack, one applauds him for what he does
tonight. Another nods his agreement on this, but stresses that
Q’teeb must be back up the wall by daybreak. The Magisterium
frowns on those who would pervert the spirit of a court-rendered
sentence of exile.
When he finishes his downward climb, landing roughly on
a patch of dry earth at the base of the outer wall, Q’teeb’s body
tenses, as though it expects immediate attack. This feeling does
not disperse, although it does subside once he has stood on guard
for a few minutes.
Being beyond the walls of Redoubt is very dangerous, especially
at night, but he is committed to his endeavor, determined to wait
as long as he can, and convinced that his sister Nekba will appear.
After almost an hour, his muscles ache from the accumulated
strain and tension, the smaller of Zileska’s two moons has reached its
zenith, and Q’teeb begins to wonder if he should not perhaps begin to
make his way along the wall, thinking that Nekba might have gotten
confused or lost somehow and might now be looking for him at a
different location than the one agreed upon in a hazy dialogue that took
place weeks before. Just as he is about to move out, he hears a noise.
From ahead of him it comes, wafting out of the woods like an
aroma of sound. Subtle, at first, it grows slowly in intensity and
Q’teeb realizes this is because the source of the sound is drawing
near. Setting his packs down, he draws a blade in one hand and
his girga in the other, not spinning it actively but more than ready
to whip its weighted projectile at a moment’s notice.
As the sound approaches, another sound emerges below it,
coming from the same direction. Unlike the first, which is a low but
constant thrum of some kind, this is an intermittent sound, as if…
Footsteps, he thinks. Feet moving slowly across dry ground.
“Nekba?” he calls out to the dark. He tries to moderate his
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THE SENSE OF EXILE
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PEOPLE OF
REDOUBT
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PEOPLE OF REDOUBT
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TA L E S OF THE LOST C I TA D E L
including Madness on the Orient Express, Hobby Games: The 100 Best,
The Munchkin Book, and the Books of Flesh zombie trilogy. His
work has received five Origins Awards and an ENnie Award, and
been a finalist for the International Horror Guild Award and the
Bram Stoker Award.
ARI MARMELL would love to tell you all about his various
esoteric jobs and wacky adventures on the way to becoming an
author, but he doesn’t have any. Ari graduated with a Creative
Writing degree and — after multiple mundane jobs — broke into
roleplaying games before moving on to focus on novels and other
fiction. He has published with Titan Books, Pyr Books, Del Rey/
Random House, and others, and has done a bit of self-publishing
as well. Ari lives in an apartment that’s almost as cluttered as his
subconscious, with his wife, George, and two cats who are staring
at him at this very moment. He finds speaking of himself in the
third person awkward and strange.
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354
PEOPLE OF REDOUBT
addition to the books he’s written and developed, C.A. has written
for board games, periodicals, and pure fiction. He is a long-standing
member of the Academy of Adventure Gaming Arts and Design
(GAMA), for which he served for years and as jury foreman for
the annual Origins Awards. These days, he’s got his hands full as
Creative Director of Make Believe Games and as line developer
of its internationally acclaimed roleplaying games. He lives in the
Washington, D.C. area, where his band Toll Carom is slowly but
surely toiling away at its latest concept album.
C.A.’s story in this anthology is meant to springboard the
Lost Citadel meta-setting into a new phase (about which he’s
super excited), and he hopes you’ll follow the progress as the
whole endeavor surges forward. You can find LC online at www.
thelostcitadel.com and www.facebook.com/thelostcitadel.
355
N isaba Press is the fiction imprint of Green Ronin
Publishing. Nisaba will be publishing novels,
anthologies, and short fiction tied to the rich and varied
worlds of Green Ronin’s tabletop roleplaying properties.
Current plans include stories of swashbuckling horror in
the fantasy world of Freeport: City of Adventure, tales set
in the romantic fantasy world of Aldea from the Blue Rose
Roleplaying Game, superheroic adventures set in the world of
Earth-Prime from Mutants & Masterminds, and chronicles
of fantasy survival-horror in the world of The Lost Citadel.
www.nisabapress.com